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Title: My Three Days in Gilead

Author: Elmer U. Hoenshel

Release date: August 1, 2003 [eBook #4322]
                Most recently updated: December 27, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY THREE DAYS IN GILEAD ***






Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.




My Three Days in Gilead





    I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm;
    I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm;
    I love to wet my foot in Herman's dews;
    I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse;
    In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose,
    And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose.
    --J. PIERPONT.





MY THREE DAYS IN GILEAD

By Elmer U. Hoenshel, D. D.,

Principal of Shenandoah Collegiate Institute and School of Music





In profound gratitude, this little volume is dedicated to the
memory of William Barakat of Jerusalem.

My faithful, careful dragoman, who in manhood's prime, yet not
many months before his death, guided me in safety, not only during
my trying "Three Days in Gilead," but also throughout an extended
tour otherwhere in his native land--the Holy Land of my faith.

THE AUTHOR





INTRODUCTION


At last, after waiting twenty leaden-winged years from the time in
which a fixed purpose was formed in me to visit the Orient, the
realization came. The year that saw the fulfillment of my
cherished ambition was definitely determined upon eight summers
before it took its place in the calendar of history. Fortune
smiled upon my plan. I was ready. My joy was akin to ecstasy.

Imagine my disappointment when, in the month of May of my chosen
year, 1900, I learned that no agency would organize a tourist
party to move at a time in the summer or autumn that would suit
me! There was but one alternative--to travel independent of any
organization. This I would do. The decision to do so brought
instant and happy relief.

At no time in my period of absence of five months did I meet a
single former acquaintance. I planned every move, and held myself
in every way responsible for results. The experience I thus gained
in the many countries visited I value highly. Not infrequently I
found myself in trying situations; but all ended well. To-day, in
my inventory of life's rich and helpful experiences, though it
were possible for me to do it, I would not eliminate one of these.
It was a kind Providence that denied me the luxury of a place in a
modern "personally conducted" tourist party.

A few articles descriptive of certain experiences have been
written by me for publication. Some themes I have presented on the
lecture platform a few hundred times. My auditors, universally,
have been kind in their criticisms. Many have been the requests
that I write a volume reciting the story of my travels. In
response I have steadily refused. Many books on travel have
appeared in recent years, possibly too many; but I have seen very
little that has been written about the trans-Jordanic highlands.
And it is not strange, for, though multitudes of tourists annually
visit Palestine, not one person out of a thousand of them ever
goes east of the Jordan. And is it worth while? We shall see.

On my trip I tried to identify no biblical site; I tried to locate
no city of antiquity; I dug into no mound; I disturbed no ruin.
All this I left to the geographer, the historian, and the
archaeologist who had preceded me, or who should come after me.
True, with the help of my Bible, map, guide-book, and guide, I
formed opinions, and was happy in the fitness of some of them;
but, in the main, I was content to rest in the conclusions reached
by those who had studied scientifically and reverently every hill
and valley and ruin in this neglected region.

But my observation and experience no other has had. I know of no
other who mapped out or traveled the route chosen by me. I sought
and expected much; I found and experienced more. And though eight
years have passed since my journeyings in Gilead, yet so fresh is
the memory of those days that I need make but slight reference, as
I write, to the notes that were then written. Often, in recent
years, I have found myself lingering in thought on some high ridge
looking out over an extended panorama filled with sacred
associations, or silently gazing up into the strangely impressive
Oriental sky by night. Even as I write I seem to catch again a
perfume-laden breeze, bearing repose to my weary soul. And if the
memory of this land seen in its desolation is so refreshing to a
foreigner, what must not the possession of the real in the days of
its fatness have been to the weary, battle-scarred Israelites who
secured permission to abide here!

So, in response to the call of my friends, and with the hope of
adding somewhat to the meager fund of information concerning a
once famous district, or, at least, to create additional interest
in the territory occupied by the tribe of Gad in the days of early
allotment, I undertake to tell the story of "My Three Days in
Gilead."

Dayton, Virginia, February 20, 1909.





Contents


Chapter    I. "Waiting at Damascus"
Chapter   II. "Through Bashan"
Chapter  III. "Among Bedouins"
Chapter   IV. "At Gerasa"
Chapter    V. "Up Into the Mountains"
Chapter   VI. "By the Watch-Tower"
Chapter  VII. "Down to the Jordan"
Chapter VIII. "At the Bridge"





"Waiting at Damascus"

CHAPTER I.


Damascus! A city that numbers the years of its existence in
millenniums; that witnessed in the dawn of history the migration
of Abraham as he went out from Ur to a land not known to him, and
to whom she gave one of the best of her sons; that sent out the
leper, Naaman, to Palestine for healing and received him back
whole; that hailed with great preparations the coming of Elisha,
who had previously blinded her army at Dothan; that welcomed Saul
of Tarsus in his blindness, restored his sight, and sent him,
transformed in his life, to transform Asia Minor and classic
Europe. Damascus! A city surviving an age-long struggle with the
encroaching desert--a struggle that must go on through ages to
come; but, as long as the Abana and Pharpar continue to flow, the
sands that would bury her forever in oblivion will be changed into
a soil of life-giving and life-sustaining fertility sufficient to
support her thousands of inhabitants. Damascus! A city of the long
ago, practically unchanged, where the Occidental may look to-day
with unfeigned interest upon architecture, costumes, and customs
similar to those that prevailed in the East while Greece and Rome
were yet young. Damascus! A city celebrated for a thousand years
for its bazaars, work-shops, and roses; a city so beautiful
thirteen hundred years ago that Mohammed, viewing it for the first
time from a distance, is said to have exclaimed: "Man can have but
one paradise. My paradise is heaven; I cannot enter yonder city!"
a city to-day of unsurpassed beauty, when viewed from the
distance, with its white domes and slender minarets rising above
the shrubbery and trees of its thirty thousand gardens. Here in
this old city; in this historic city; in this beautiful city; in
Damascus, I greet you and extend to you an invitation to join me
in my proposed trip through Gilead.

My party as yet consists of but two persons. My dragoman, William
Barakat, of Jerusalem, in response to a telegram sent from
Constantinople, met me several days ago at Beyrout. He is a native
Syrian, talks good English, dresses like an American, (save that
he wears a red fez,) and is a Christian in faith. Before reaching
this city he has already rendered me excellent service. He is
intelligent, having attended the American College at Beyrout. I
can trust him.

My arrangements with my guide are simple. He is to take me over my
desired route by best possible methods of travel; to furnish the
best of fare and lodging obtainable; to guarantee me a safe
escort; and he is to do all this within a specified time and for a
stipulated price. I did not then know how little I was asking as
to fare and lodging, but when I knew that he was fulfilling his
part of the agreement I had little cause for just complaint.

By early dawn, on October thirtieth, we had breakfasted and had
bidden good-by to all the servants about the hotel, (many of whom
I did not know to exist, but who, somehow, had learned of me, and
had risen thus early to witness my departure and to ask a fee for
services that I am quite sure some of them had had no part in
rendering,) and had ordered the driver to lose no time in reaching
the station of the Damascus-Hauran Railroad, about two miles
distant. But, notwithstanding the early hour, the streets were
already crowded with people, mules, donkeys, dogs, and other
things. It was only with great effort that we could make any
headway, and at times it seemed that the crowd, angered at our
persistence, would stop us entirely in our struggle to pass
through. We did the best we could, but we missed the train. Since
there were ONLY THREE TRAINS A WEEK on that road, it meant that I
must go back to that same hotel and spend two more days in
Damascus at the rate of ten dollars a day, and then, again, on
leaving, must fee those same servants for service that I did not
want, and, generally speaking, did not get. But, though the
disappointment was great, it brought additional opportunity to
study the wonders and ways of the wonderful city wherein I was
forced to remain.

A second time my dragoman prepares food for our journey; and
again, on the morning of November first, we hurry to the station.
This time we do not miss the train--we wait for it--and we wait a
long time; but with the waiting there is contentment, for, if the
train move south, I, too, am sure of going.





"Through Bashan"

CHAPTER II.


At the time of this writing there is a railroad extending from
Damascus to Mecca, but at the time of my visit the terminus was at
Mezarib, a small town about fifty miles south of Damascus, near
the northern boundary-line of Gilead. It was in my plan to travel
that distance by rail; hence my presence at the city railroad
station.

The ride to Mezarib, through Bashan, especially that part of it
now known as the Hauran, is one of more than ordinary interest.
For the first twenty-five miles the land is literally covered with
black basaltic rocks, as is also part of the remaining distance.
How it is cultivated I can scarcely understand, for I am sure that
the American horse could not be made to serve well here. But I was
told that the natives do cultivate it, and that they raise
excellent crops of grain. When I looked upon them at work with
their crude wooden plows and brush harrows, and then heard that
they raise excellent crops of grain, I was satisfied that the land
must be very fertile; and I was reminded of a certain humorist's
remark about the fertility of some land in Kansas, of which he
said, "All you need to do is to tickle the ground with a hoe, and
it will laugh with a big harvest." Farther on the rocks almost
entirely disappear, and there is spread out a beautiful valley,
extending far to the south, whose fertility and pasturage
attracted the Israelites on their march to Canaan, and which, ever
since, has caused the name "Bashan" to be a synonym for "plenty."
And, because of its abundant production of grain, which finds a
ready market in Damascus, it has been aptly called the "granary of
Damascus."

The manner in which this grain is put on the market is quite novel
to me. I see hundreds of camels loaded with large sacks of grain
moving with slow, swinging tread toward Damascus, or returning
unloaded to the desert. The camels proceed in single file, usually
ten or more in a train, and each is led by means of a rope
fastened to the animal next in front--the rope of the foremost of
all being fastened to the saddle of a donkey, on which the owner,
or driver, usually rides. Many grindstones also are shipped from
this country, one large stone constituting a load for a camel.
This land is, also a great grazing region, and for more than three
thousand years Bashan has been celebrated for its fine breed of
cattle.

Some distance south of Damascus I cross the headwaters of the
Pharpar River, whose clear, sparkling water Naaman considered much
more suitable for a general's bath than the muddy water of the
Jordan. At my place of crossing an athlete could clear the stream
at a single bound.

The distant scenery deserves more than a passing notice, though
but little more can be given here. Off to the west, in plain view,
is Mount Hermon, whose towering, snow-capped summit in all
probability looked upon the transfigured person of the Son of Man.
To the east is the Lejah, in, or near which is Edrei, where Og,
the giant king of Bashan, was slain in the attempt to hold his
realm against the home-seeking Israelites under the leadership of
Moses. South of the Lejah are the Hauran Mountains, now occupied
by the Druses, a people of a peculiar religious faith--a faith
which is a mixture of Mohammedan, Christian, and Zoroastrian
elements. One of their beliefs is that the number of souls in
existence never varies. "Accordingly, all the souls now in life
have lived in some human form since the creation, and will
continue to live till the final destruction of the world." To them
prayer is thought to be an unwarrantable interference with the
Almighty. They, having colonized this mountain, are at present
causing the Turkish government much trouble. They number about
90,000, and are almost continuously at war with the neighboring
Bedouin tribes. And because of the feuds which prevail here, it is
expected, and I believe is a matter of law, that all visitors to
this region must have an escort either of soldiers or Bedouins.
Were not robbery and bloodshed so prevalent in the East-Jordan
country, its ruins and scenery would attract hundreds of tourists
where now but a few ever suffer their curiosity or interest in
Bible lands to turn them aside from the beaten paths of travel. In
my course I pass through a portion of the land of which we read in
Deut. 3:3-5, noted for its many "rock cities." I look upon the
ruins of a number of these, but have little opportunity for a
close examination. The most noted ruins that I see are at Sunamein
and at Mezarib. But those who have pressed farther east, and who
have made a careful study of the best preserved of these "rock
cities" of Bashan, tell us that everything about them is of stone-
doors, gates, windows, stairs, rafters, galleries, cupboards,
benches, and even candlesticks. So perfectly preserved are some of
these "dead cities," that of one, Salcah, Doctor Porter says that
some five hundred of the houses are still standing, and that "from
three hundred to four hundred families might settle in it at any
moment without laying a stone or expending an hour's labor on
repairs." Of Beth-gamul another traveler says in part: "The houses
were some of them very large, consisting usually of three rooms on
the ground floor, and two on the first story, the stairs being
formed of large stones built in the house walls, and leading up
outside. The doors were, as usual, of stone; sometimes folding
doors, and some of them highly ornamental. I wandered about quite
alone in the old streets of the town--entered one by one the old
houses, went up-stairs, visited the rooms, and, in short, made a
careful examination of the whole place; but so perfect was every
street, every house, every room, that I almost fancied I was in a
dream, wandering alone in this city of the dead, seeing all
perfect, yet not hearing a sound. "Much of the work in most of
these cities is on such a large scale as to indicate that the
houses were built by, and intended for a race of giants. When we
think of these fortresses of strength defended by their mighty
occupants, and remember that they were probably in existence at
the time of the exodus of the Israelites from Egyptian bondage,
the victories of Moses gained here become sublime.

We are nearing Mezarib. All forenoon has been consumed in covering
a distance of only about fifty miles. But by twelve o'clock we
have passed almost completely across the land where Og was king,
especially that part of his kingdom which, not long after being
wrested from him and his giant followers, was assigned to the
eastern half-tribe of Manasseh for a permanent possession.

Before leaving Beyrout my dragoman telegraphed to Jerusalem for a
muleteer and three horses to be sent to this railroad terminus.
Must we be disappointed in this! We are both solicitous. My guide
is leaning far out of the car window long before the train stops
to learn, if possible, whether or not his order has been obeyed. I
watch that dark, anxious, perplexed face with much solicitude. Ah,
he smiles! The sunshine of satisfaction chases the clouds of
anxiety and doubt from his countenance, and that dark face looks
beautiful to me. He is happy, and I share in his happiness. Our
muleteer and horses are awaiting us.





"Among Bedouins"

CHAPTER III.


At twelve o'clock our train stopped. I was quickly introduced to
him who had been awaiting us, and who was now to join our party--
"Haleel," of Jerusalem. He was dressed in typical Eastern fashion,
wearing the wide pantaloons, flowing robe, and "kufiyeh"; he was
apparently twenty-five years old, dark-skinned, and blind in one
eye; he could not speak a word of English; and he was a devout
Mohammedan. "Haleel, of Jerusalem!" Notwithstanding his fantastic
appearance, the name and place of residence seemed to me a
blending of mystery and sacredness. I did not hesitate to extend a
cordial greeting, and his smile of confused interest as I tried to
shake hands with him while he tried to give me an Oriental
salutation won me to him. It was his only intelligible language to
me, but it was sufficient to give me assurance of his friendship,
and I was beginning to feel that from that hour I should need
friends. The salutation that Haleel offered to me was a quick,
graceful movement of his hand toward my feet, next to his lips,
and then lightly to his forehead. I had seen the natives do this
in exchanging salutations, and now that it had been offered to me
I sought an interpretation. My guide explained that Haleel meant
to tell me that he felt so honored in meeting me, that he "would
take the dust from my feet, would kiss it, and then place it on
his forehead." Beautiful sentiment! Had I ever previously in my
life been so honored in meeting any one!

The greeting over, I noticed unusual movements about the station.
Many Turkish soldiers were there. They stood about in groups
engaged in animated conversation. Upon inquiry I learned that the
feuds so common in that region were again "on," and that the
soldiers were there to quell lawlessness. As I was the only
tourist there I became an object of special interest. Some of the
men came to my dragoman, and only a few words had passed until I
knew that I was the subject of their conversation. I could
occasionally catch the word "hawadje," which means "master," and I
knew they were referring to me. Then they would look at me and
shake their heads. I was anxious to know what it all meant, but
had to be content with what my guide was pleased to tell of it. He
seemed to have gained his point, but he told me nothing except to
prepare for a hard trip, as a day's distance must be covered, if
possible, before nightfall. As we had already lost two days in
Damascus, I was not averse to trying something strenuous in order
to make up in part for that loss. I felt quite equal to the task,
(though it proved to be a severe ordeal,) when it was explained to
me that it would require a ride of more than forty miles to reach
a safe halting-place for the night. My guide had planned it; and I
was committed to the plan.

After a hurried lunch, eaten in the tent of an Arab, I prepare
for,--I know not what. I put on my leggings and head-gear. Then I
give over my luggage, which consists of a suit-case, hand-grip,
umbrella, and alpenstock, to Haleel. I keep my overcoat, not
because the weather is cold,--it is hot,--but because I think I
may possibly need it as a kind of cushion for my saddle before the
day is over. The need was felt, and SORELY felt quite early in the
afternoon; but most of the time we rode too rapidly for my
overcoat to supply the need,--it just would not stay where I had
hoped it might serve me well. So it happened that I was destined
to experience on that ride such misery as I had scarcely thought
one could endure. But, I anticipate.

We are ready. I am anxious to be going. I am delighted when my
horse, a beauty, indeed, and of pure Arabian stock, is led up by
two dusky sons of the desert. Surely my long trip to Jerusalem
will be one of pleasure when I am mounted on such a steed! At
half-past twelve o'clock we mount, and, facing to the south, we
set off at a brisk pace for Gerasa, (known to the Arabs as
Jerash,) where it has been planned that we shall spend the night.
Several of the natives accompany us a short distance on foot, one
running on either side of my horse and holding to the bridle; but
soon, with interesting and graceful salaams, they leave us to
pursue our hot and dusty way alone.

There are just three of us, and we proceed in the following order:
my dragoman, who is guide and interpreter, leads the way; I follow
next after him; bringing up the rear is our muleteer, who takes
charge of all luggage, cares for the horses, and especially for,--
me. Why should I not be happy? For the first time in my life I
have two men engaged to look after my wants. They did their duty
well,--were almost painfully attentive at times. But to-day I
thank them for their kind severity.

Not having spent more than a few hours on horse-back in the
previous ten years, I found, after riding a few miles, that it
required more than a beautiful horse to make riding comfortable to
an inexperienced rider. But our way led through such a beautiful
valley, and on either hand were mountains so suggestive of Bible
narrative that there was much in the earlier part of the afternoon
to divert my attention from any physical discomfort. Where we were
riding there was no road,--simply bridle-paths, and frequently not
even a path.

After we had been riding for an hour a young Arab on camel-back
joined us. I did not like his searching looks from a face almost
hidden in his head-garment. But he stayed with us for a half-hour,
and in that time had raced his camel with our horses; then he
suddenly turned from us toward the near mountains of Gilead. We
met a number of caravans in the earlier part of the afternoon, and
I noted that every man that I saw carried a gun, or some sort of
sword, or large knife. They were ready for defense, if occasion
should arise.

About two o'clock we passed a "memorial heap," or cairn. Some
tragedy occurred there, and the custom of the region is that the
passer-by places reverently on the pile of rocks already formed an
additional stone. Elsewhere I had seen this done when it seemed to
me the actor was under the spell of a superstitious fear.

About the middle of the afternoon a soldier, full armed, dashes up
to us in a mad gallop, hands a message to my dragoman, and then as
rapidly rides back again. I am a little alarmed at this until I
learn that he has entrusted a writing to us to be delivered in
Jerusalem. A little later I see another soldier leave the group in
which he is riding and gallop ahead across the open way to the
brow of a hill. There he dismounts, lays down his gun, takes the
robe, or blanket, on which he rode, spreads it upon the ground,
faces toward Mecca, and prostrates himself in prayer. The prayer
over, he dashes down to his party and they are off like the wind.

About four o'clock we passed near a little village, the only place
where I saw a house on that long afternoon ride. It is not safe
for any one to live outside the villages; hence there are no
isolated dwellings in all this region. We did not halt for one
moment, but kept pressing steadily on.

After five o'clock the plain was deserted; we saw from that time
neither man nor beast. I was cramped and painfully tired, and
feeling that if I could but walk for a few minutes it would be
quite a relief, I dismounted--quite a difficult thing to do and
keep from sprawling upon the ground. But I was no sooner off my
horse than Haleel was beside me, and my dragoman, who was at that
time nearly a hundred yards ahead of me, rode back and sternly
commanded: "You get right back on that horse; this is no time to
think of walking; you can do that some other time." Inwardly I
resented it; how could I stand it longer! I blamed it on the
saddle, then I thought that they must have given me the worst
horse of the three. But all this helped nothing. They assisted me
again into the saddle. Then my guide delivered a little speech in
Arabic to Haleel. I did not then understand it, but shortly after
I learned the essence of it; it was, "You keep your eye on him and
see that he keeps his horse moving." When I found myself again in
the saddle I determined that if I must ride there would be no more
trotting of my horse,--I would proceed as gently as possible. But,
alas! Haleel had his whip and my dream of controlling my horse was
over. After that I kept close to my dragoman. At that time I
thought it harsh treatment, but later I understood.

We have reached the limit of level land and are now winding among
the eastern foot-hills of the mountains of Gilead. It is the hour
of sunset and the great orb of day sinks in sad beauty to me. In
the twilight I see here and there half-buried pillars of some
famous temple--a temple that surely never stood here. Our horses
are wet with sweat; we have not halted for lunch; not a drop of
water has been seen; night is coming on with its pale moon casting
weird shadows about us; we are alone in a land noted for its
lawlessness, and yet we are unarmed. We move on almost in silence.
There is silence about us, save for the cry now and then of some
night-bird. We see no lights save those above us. My guide seems
bewildered and uncertain as to the location of the town we seek. I
am faint from weariness, and so cramped that at times it is with
difficulty that I keep from falling to the ground. I am now quite
solicitous as to our safety and not a little alarmed when our way
leads through some rocky, narrow passage suggestive of a lurking-
place for men of evil intent. But at last, at half-past nine
o'clock, after being in the saddle for nine hours, I am aroused
from my stupor by a joyful exclamation from my dragoman. A few dim
lights are seen,--IT IS GERASA!

My dragoman continued his exclamations of praise thus, "I thank my
God for saving my life once more." I said faintly, "Why such
words?" "Well," he said, "all natives are expected to be in their
villages by sundown, tourists at their destination earlier. It is
the custom of this region that tourists must have an escort of
soldiers or Bedouins, even in times of peace; and now THE FEUDS
ARE ON; and here we have come alone, at night, unarmed; and I am
responsible for these horses--they are not mine--and for your
life. The ride may have been hard for you, but the hours of
anxiety were more trying to me. I have now done it once, but I'll
never again assume such a risk--NOT EVEN FOR A MILLION POUNDS!" I
had no response that he heard, but mentally I said, "Never again
with ME, Mr. Barakat. NO, NEVER!

Yet I think I never experienced greater joy on entering my own
home than on that night when entering and riding through the
crooked, narrow lanes of that miserable village of Gilead.





"At Gerasa"

CHAPTER IV.


Though in the village, and therefore relieved of the feeling of
special danger, yet we had much difficulty in securing lodging for
the night. Our arrival seemed to disturb the peace of dogdom in
what otherwise would have been a quiet resting-place. No people
were outside their houses. We picked our way to the nearest light;
the occupant of the house would not come out, but showed his face
at the window--a hole in the wall about a foot square. My dragoman
pleaded for lodging, but in vain. We sought the next house in
which there was a light, but neither would the people of that home
open to us. We tried several other places, but at all of them we
were refused admission. They seemed to look with suspicion upon
our visit to the village. But, finally, a good old Mohammedan
consented to let us spend the night in his rock hut, and gave us
the privilege of putting our horses in his little walled space by
the house. Haleel must spend the night in this yard--he always
slept with the horses. When my dragoman helps me over the stone
door-sill, and we enter the hut, we find that the part allotted to
men consists of but one small room, having a floor of earth on
which are spread a couple of mats. In this room there is no
furniture. Two persons are already asleep on the floor. We do not
disturb them.

Not having eaten anything since noon, my dragoman begins at once
to prepare a light lunch for us. On a brazier that he finds here
he makes a little charcoal fire and quickly brews some of the tea
brought from Damascus; into this he squeezes lemon juice; then
finding some bread that he had stowed away in his saddle-bags, our
lunch is ready. I sit on the floor as comfortable as I can make
myself while he is getting supper. The flickering light, the
shifting shadows, the strange ones lying asleep, the almost as
strange dusky helpers, the sense of dangers just escaped, the
whining, wailing, barking dogs, my physical pain--all these things
beget within me a strange feeling of loneliness and a longing for
home. Again and again I ask myself the question, "Why did you
undertake this; why were you not content to go down from Damascus
to Galilee and all of West Palestine by the easy way?" But, again
and again I say to myself: "You would never have been satisfied
had you done so; this is part of the price to be paid for what you
wanted; consider what you get in exchange, value received."

But my reverie is cut short by a groan from my dragoman; he sank
back trembling and said, "Call Haleel!" Together we worked with
him for a half-hour or more until a chill, the result of drinking
too much water on reaching the village, had been overcome. I was
much alarmed at the possible outcome of his sudden illness, for
had he left me thus the situation for me would have been one of
extreme perplexity. In my anxiety for him I forgot for the moment
my own condition. But now I am again a conscious sufferer. So
tired am I that I can scarcely wait until I have sipped a little
tea and eaten a little bread before I have removed hat and shoes
and am stretched out upon the floor to sleep. The horses seem
restless in their stamping; the dogs keep up their barking; the
room is dark; I hear the heavy breathing of those about me; a lone
star peeps in through the small window; and I try to compose
myself for the rest that I so much need. "Is there no balm in
Gilead?" Yes. I thought that I was lying down to a night of
restlessness and fever, but never on couch of down has my rest
been sweeter.

I am awakened at dawn by some one moving about in the room, and I
see a man pick up a gun and pass quickly out. The dogs are barking
savagely throughout the village. Then I look about me. Imagine my
surprise when I discover that I have had five bed-fellows, or
rather FLOOR-FELLOWS! There we lay stretched out in all sorts of
angles and curves--American, Syrian, Circassian; Christian and
Mohammedan--forming a kind of crazy patch-work on the earthen
floor. And imagine my supreme disgust when I discover a big,
dirty, odorous, unshod human foot, erect on the heel and with toes
spread out like a fan, within a few inches of my face! Bah! How
was it that I slept! I turn my face to the wall and soon lose
thought of the disturbing vision in slumber.

It is quite late when again I wake. The host is sitting on his mat
near me fumbling beads and chanting prayers. Without moving I
watch him for a while and note that he is also interested in me,
and that he now knows that I am awake. I begin an investigation of
myself, and find, to my glad surprise, that while I am stiff and
sore I feel quite refreshed. I dress myself--a simple matter this
morning, simply putting on my shoes--and while my dragoman
prepares our breakfast I exercise myself somewhat by walking down
to an old Roman bridge spanning the small stream flowing through
the village. In this half-hour I get a good general knowledge of
the location of the town, its outline, its magnificent ruins, etc.
But I am not ready yet for sight-seeing. I prefer to listen to the
brook singing its happy way almost hidden among the pink oleanders
that grow in such profusion along its sides. The running water,
the perfume of the flowers, the flood of sunlight--these are like
balm to me after my awful yesterday. Certainly I shall be ready
early to study the ruins of this wonderful, mysterious, ancient
city.

Breakfast is ready. It consists of boiled eggs, bread, cheese, and
tea. Our table is the floor on which we slept. The male members of
the house-hold join us as we sit on mats around the simple meal.
Our host sends one of the men (a visitor to a Mohammedan home
never meets, and frequently never sees a woman) to bring a little
of his own bread. It does not look at all tempting to me, but I am
told that if I wish to secure my host's friendship I must eat of
it. This I do, but only once, and now he would be almost willing
to die for me should occasion arise.

After breakfast he shows me some antique coins that he had found,
and when my guide explains that I am an American schoolmaster, he
manifests exceedingly his delight. He almost pulls me out into his
little yard where he had been digging, and where he had unearthed
an inscribed cylindrical block of marble about two feet in
diameter and four feet in length. The lettering is in Greek. He
thinks it must tell of hidden treasure. And so it does to me, but
not of the kind for which he is looking. The inscription is
partially effaced, but I see enough to conclude that it was likely
at one time the pedestal of a statue.

I next proceed to take a further general view of this celebrated
locality--celebrated, for here are the most noted ruins east of
the Jordan. My first observation is that the present inhabitants,
Circassians, are rapidly despoiling the treasures of antiquity
found here. They take the rocks and pillars of temples that were
once the admiration of a great region and pile them roughly
together, forming a small enclosure; then, in many instances, they
place poles and brush across the top, throw ground on the brush,--
and their houses are ready for occupancy. There is no regularity
whatever in the plan of the alleys, or lanes, of the present
village. We mount our horses for a further study of these
interesting ruins.

Gerasa was one of the chief cities of the Decapolis, (the other
nine were Damascus, Hippos, Scythopolis, Dion, Pella, Kanatha,
Raphana, Gadara, and Philadelphia,) and was situated twenty miles
east of the Jordan on one of the northern tributaries of the
Jabbok, and within five miles of the place where the famous
"Moabite Stone" was found. Tristam considers it to-day as
"PROBABLY THE MOST PERFECT ROMAN CITY LEFT ABOVE GROUND." The
present ruins seem to date back to the second century of the
Christian era. A Christian bishop from Gerasa attended the Council
of Seleucia in 359 A.D., and another that of Chalcedon in 451 A.D.
In the thirteenth century this city was in ruins. It was then for
five centuries lost to the eyes of the civilized world. In the
beginning of the thirteenth century a German traveler visited it;
the magnificent ruins of the place amazed him. The same ruins to-
day, or some of them, strike the comparatively few visitors with
awe at the thought of the riches, the gayety, and the power that
once reigned here on the border of the desert.

The walls of the ancient city are plainly traceable, and formed an
enclosure about a mile square. Three of its gates are fairly well
preserved. On the south side of the city ruins, less than a half
mile distant, stands a triumphal arch forty feet high. Between
this arch and the city wall are the ruins of a great stone pool
and of a circus. The main street lies on the west side of the
stream. It was paved; yet shows ruts worn into the stones by
chariot wheels; and was lined on each side with a row of rock
columns above twenty feet in height, some of which have capitals
representing a high degree of artistic skill in their planning and
execution. Part of this street was arcaded behind the columns
where was the sidewalk. Fronting upon this street were vast
temples and baths, which, though fallen, are yet grand in their
ruins. All along this way lie great blocks of stone and marble and
fallen columns, so numerous that at times our progress is almost
barred. But not all of the columns are fallen; more than two
hundred yet stand on their original bases. About mid-way along the
street it is crossed at right angles by another which is also
lined with columns. Farther on toward the south it widens into an
oval-shaped forum a hundred yards long, surrounded with Ionic
pillars in their original positions.

Just beyond the forum, elevated somewhat, is a large, well-
preserved temple; and immediately to the right of the temple is a
theater built in the hill-side with seats, stage, and other parts
plainly distinguishable. It is easy to sit in one of these empty
benches and see, as a shadow out of the past, a lively scene
presented on the now deserted stage--the voice of eloquence rings
clear out of the dead centuries, the play-house resounds with the
applause of the shades that fill the seats about me--and, then,
the curtain of mystery is dispelled by the bright sunlight that
floods all the landscape, and I see nothing but ruins everywhere.
The play is over. The shades have gone again to their long home.

On a commanding position in the north-west quarter stood temples
of vast proportions whose spacious courts, tottering walls, and
forsaken altars speak in eloquent terms of a glory long since
departed. Evidently this was a populous city, for it possessed two
theaters capable of seating many thousands of people. That it was
a religious city, and much given to idolatry, its temples and
altars declare.

While Josephus speaks of the capture of this city by Alexander
Jannaeus, about 85 B.C., we look in vain for a mention of it in
the Bible. But some recent investigators, notably Dr. Merrill,
(with whom I had the pleasure and honor of conversing,) incline to
the opinion that Gerasa was the original Ramoth-gilead. Dr.
Merrill gives six arguments in favor of his position, which, after
my observations made in the place itself, I feel like accepting.

If this were Ramoth-gilead, then how much of Bible story clusters
about the spot! It was a "city of refuge"; and over these hills or
up and down this valley rushed the accidental man-slayer to seek
refuge within its gates from the blood-thirsty pursuer. Here Ahab
was slain (I. Kings 22:34-37), here Ahaziah and Jehoram defeated
Hazael (II. Kings 8:28, 29; 9:14), and here Jehu was anointed king
of Israel and rode forth in a chariot to execute his terrible
commission concerning the house of Ahab (II. Kings 9:4-26).

Gerasa! Beautiful, though in ruins. What glory must once have been
thine! But where are the warriors who passed in triumph through
thy gates? Where are the builders of thy temples? Where are the
the priests who ministered at thy altars? Where are the devotees
who bowed at thy shrines? Where are the people who thronged thy
theaters and trod thy beautiful streets? The hills over which man
walked are still here; the rocks that he quarried, carved,
polished, and fitted into place are here; the stone coffin in
which he lay down to his last resting-place is here--but where is
HE? Gone! gone forever! Surely, how frail is man! How fleeting his
glory! As the waters of thy stream flow on to the Sea of Death, so
has the tide of life which swept through thy streets passed on to
the grave and oblivion.





"Up Into the Mountains"

CHAPTER V.


Passing out over the fallen western wall of Gerasa we are
immediately in the ancient cemetery, which extends for a mile, or
nearly so, from the city. Many stone sarcophagi, some of which are
artistically carved, lie scattered about in almost every
conceivable position--some even lying across the tops of others.
But these windowless rock-palaces are all empty.

Leaving Gerasa, my way leads in a general direction westward over
the mountains of Gilead. The reader must remember that in all this
region there is not a road over which a carriage can be driven,
save that quite recently a few trips have been made from Mezarib
to Gerasa. What are called roads are simply bridle-paths, and, in
many cases, the paths are so indistinct that the guide is more
likely to take you forward with reference to a general direction
than to attempt to lead you by a recognized trail.

The Mountains of Gilead present a rugged appearance, but, in the
main, are clothed with vegetation; hence they are beautiful in
their majesty. The olive and the prickly oak are abundant. The
villages are not numerous, and are situated far up the slopes, or
even on the tops of the ridges. These villages are clusters of
squalid huts constructed of stone and mud, and can afford no
accommodation such as an American might desire. But, in many
instances, they occupy sites identified with places and events
noted in Bible story.

These mountains were given to Gad in the allotment of Joshua and
Eleazar. Surely at that time the prospect must have been much more
pleasing than at present, or the Gadites would not have been so
anxious to receive this district as a permanent possession. True,
even now, a few narrow valleys, or wadies, show signs of great
fertility, but the greater part is quite uninviting. Yet to the
tourist there is much of interest in this region.

My way to the Jordan lay over these mountains, especially that
part known as the Jebel Ajlun. Sometimes it seemed impossible to
proceed because of rocks and underbrush. The mountain sides were
so steep in some places that we were barely able to climb them;
many of the wadies, washed by winter torrents, were next to being
impassable; and when our way led along the sides of precipitous
slopes I shuddered to think of the consequences of a misstep upon
the part of my horse. The course I had chosen through this East-
Jordan country was an unusual one (as already noted)--one over
which my dragoman had never gone, and one over which, he said, not
one in a thousand tourists to Palestine ever asked to go,--a
statement corroborated by the United States Consul at Jerusalem,
who has written extensively on the trans-Jordanic highlands. This
statement was not very encouraging to me, but I had set my heart
on reaching the Jordan by this route, so simply said, "Lead on."
Several times I feared I had made a serious mistake, but having
come thus far I could not go back. After we had passed through the
old cemetery our ascent was gradual until we reached the modern
village of Suf, three miles northwest of Gerasa. Here we see "two
women grinding at the mill." The mill consists of two circular
stones about fourteen inches in diameter, the one stone rests upon
the other, and the grain to be crushed between them is supplied by
one of the women while the other turns the upper stone round and
round, thus grinding the meal for the uninviting bread of their
less inviting floor-table.

This place has been suggested by Major Condor as the probable site
of Mizpah in Gilead. A group of fine stone monuments, in ruins, is
yet to be seen here. If this be the location of Mizpah then here
is the place where Jacob and Laban made their covenant of lasting
peace, and erected the "heap of witness" (Gen. 31:44-52), saying,
"The Lord watch between me and thee when we are absent one from
another." Then they parted, Laban going back to Mesopotamia and
Jacob pressing on with anxious heart toward the near Jabbok and
the farther lands of his estranged brother Esau.

Inspired by the covenant at Mizpah, and with a desire to help
others to establish covenants of peace, and to accept with
cheerful resignation enforced separation from loved ones, a recent
writer, Julia A. Baker, has written beautifully the following poem
entitled "Mizpah":

    Go thou thy way and I go mine;
      Apart, yet ever near;
    Only a veil hangs thin between
      The pathways where we are;
    And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me,"
      This is my prayer;
    He looks thy way, he looketh mine,
      And keeps us near.

    I know not where thy road may lie,
      Or which way mine may be;
    If mine will lead through parching sands,
      And thine beside the sea;
    Yet "God keeps watch 'tween thee and me,"
      So, never fear.
    He holds thy hand, he claspeth mine,
      And keeps us near.

    Should wealth and fame perchance be thine,
      And my lot lowly be,
    Or thou be sad or sorrowful,
      And glory be for me;
    Yet "God keeps watch 'tween thee and me,"
      Both be his care;
    One arm 'round thee and one 'round me
      Will keep us near.

    I'll sigh sometimes to see thy face,
      But since this cannot be,
    I'll leave thee to the care of Him
      Who cares for thee and me.
    "I'll keep thee both beneath my wings"--
      This comfort dear--
    One wing o'er thee and one o'er me;
      So we are near.

    And tho' our paths be separate,
      And thy way be not mine,
   Yet coming to the mercy-seat,
      My soul will meet with thine;
    And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me,"
      I'll whisper there;
    He blesseth thee, he blesseth me,
      And we are near.

If this place were Mizpah, then here Jephthah lived; and here,
when he went out to fight against the Ammonites, he made the vow
to sacrifice whatsoever should come forth out of the doors of his
house to meet him on his return from the battle, if the Lord would
only give him the victory. The battle was fought, and Jephthah
triumphed. The glad news reached his home; and out from his house
rushed his daughter, his only child, with timbrels and with
dances, to meet her hero-father, not knowing the nature of his vow
made on the eve of the battle. Her presence caused the brave
warrior to tremble with horror and rend his clothes when he
remembered his vow. The daughter was dismayed--instead of a smile
of joy from her father she read her doom in his blanched and
contorted face. And somewhere on these hills round about the voice
of wailing arose for two months from many maidens because Jephthah
must fulfill his rash vow by sacrificing his only child. But he
did unto her according to his word; and annually thereafter for a
period of four days these hills resounded with the voice of
weeping--the weeping of the maidens of Mizpah over the sad fate of
Jephthah's daughter. (Judges 11.)

Farther on we ascend a high ridge and then begin our descent into
the southern branch of the wady of Ajlun. After winding about for
some time among the rocks and brush in the dry bed of this wady we
finally halt at Ain Jenneh, a good, strong fountain issuing from
under a great rock. We are yet in the upper reaches of the wady
and near the present village of Ajlun. Here we lunch and rest an
hour.

Some authorities identify this region as the place where was the
"wood of Ephraim." That being true, it is the place where Absalom
lost his life. Certain it is, even to-day, that to leave the
little path that we are following would mean to become hopelessly
entangled in jungles of prickly oak and other growth. Even in the
path it is with difficulty that I keep my garments from being torn
from me.

If this be the location of the "wood of Ephraim," then here the
forces of Absalom under Amasa and the armies of David under Joab
fought in those trying days of David's exile. Only a few miles
away, at Mahanaim, David sent out his men, commanding that they
touch not the young man. Then he waited for the news of the
conflict. In the thickets of Gilead the first "battle of the
wilderness" was fought. It was a decisive engagement. Joab's
veterans of many wars were too strong for the rebel's army.
Absalom sought safety in flight, but in trying to ride hurriedly
through the wild tangle his head caught in the branches of a great
oak, and before he could extricate himself, Joab had found him and
thrust him through the heart; then Joab's ten armor-bearers
encompassed the unfortunate victim and finished the deadly work.
And then, though Absalom had reared for himself a beautiful
monument in the king's dale at Jerusalem, they took his body from
the tree and threw it into a pit near by and made a great heap of
stones over it. There was no weeping at the grave of Absalom.

With the death of Absalom the rebellion was at an end; but David's
heart was broken. He waited at the gate of the city, more
interested in the welfare of his son than in the success of his
army. Swift runners approach! In answer to his question, "Is the
young man safe?" he hears reply that pierces his heart like a
dagger. Up to his chamber over the gate the king slowly passed
weeping and bent with grief, and as he went he said, "O my son
Absalom! my son, my son Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O
Absalom, my son, my son!"

A poet's conception of David's great grief on hearing of the death
of his son is portrayed in the following lines of N. P. Willis:

    Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
      Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
    That Death should settle in thy glorious eye,
      And leave his stillness in thy clustering hair!
    How could he mark thee for the silent tomb?
      My proud boy, Absalom!

    Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
      As to my bosom I have tried to press thee
    How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

      Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,
    And hear thy sweet "MY FATHER!" from these dumb
      And cold lips, Absalom!

    But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush
      Of music, and the voices of the young;
    And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
      And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;
    But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
      To meet me, Absalom!

    And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
      Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken.
    How will its love for thee, as I depart,
      Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
    It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
      To see thee, Absalom!

    And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up
      With death so like a gentle slumber on thee--
    And thy dark sin! Oh! I could drink the cup,
      If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
    May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
      My lost boy, Absalom!

But this fountain! What birds and beasts here drank undisturbed
before man came to assert his lordship! What multitudes of people
here have drunk from the days before Israel down to the present
time--the hunter, the tiller of the soil, the grape-gatherer, the
shepherd with his flocks, the warrior and his chief,--all rejoiced
and rested here, and were refreshed and strengthened by the water.

Almost with reverence we drink again; then we remount our horses
and proceed along the wady past the village of Ajlun where an Arab
joins us and guides us on over fertile patches of ground and
through olive groves until we reach the modern town of Coefrinje,
a town that probably contains several thousand inhabitants. It is
in the midst of an olive grove well up on the side of the
mountains. Here, although it is scarcely past the middle of the
afternoon, we stop for the night. It is too far to the next
village to risk going ahead--the way is none too safe, even by
day.

Several times to-day I could clearly distinguish the remains of
old Roman roads, well paved, and with curbing arrangement
excellently preserved. What vast sums of money and what great
amount of labor must have been expended on these old high-ways of
the time when this territory was occupied by the Romans! And where
Rome walked she left her path well made, and she left the impress
of her thought in rock-paved road, or in the lasting marble of
her pillared temples and carven tombs.





"By the Watch-Tower"

CHAPTER VI.


Soon after entering the village of Coefrinje my dragoman had the
rare good fortune to find a former acquaintance, but whom he did
not know to be in those mountains. His name was Elias Mitry, who,
with his wife, had come up from Jerusalem to do missionary work
under the auspices of the Church of England. Although he was a
native of Palestine and talked very poor English, yet he offered
us a welcome to his humble home than which no more royal was
accorded us anywhere. The meeting with my dragoman was an
exhibition of genuine joy, and he seemed equally pleased to have
me in his home; especially did he consider it an honor to be my
host when my dragoman told him that he was escorting a "school-
master" through the land. In that land it seems that the teacher
is almost reverenced because of his profession, while, it may be
said by way of contrast, in some sections of my home land he is
scarcely respected because of his profession. Indeed, I was
treated as a guest of honor; the best that the home afforded was
at my service. Stuffed cucumbers, figs, olives, pomegranates, and
what, for want of a better name, I call "congealed grape-juice,"
--all these were placed before me when in the early evening they
aided my guide in serving supper.

We spent little over four hours in the saddle to-day, so I am not
wearied, and I can give interested attention to the surroundings.
And there is much to interest me here. For, while the name
"Coefrinje" is not mentioned in the Bible, nor is its site
definitely identified with the location of any biblical city, yet
there is much of Bible story centered at points within five miles
of this town.

Just across the narrow valley, only a few hundred yards distant,
is the height, Kulat er Rubad. It is crowned with the ruins of an
old castle-fortress called (together with the peak on which it
stands) the "watch-tower of Gilead." The view from the dismantled
ramparts is not excelled in this part of the world. It, indeed,
rivals the view from the celebrated peak south of the Jabbok,
Jebel Osha. Dr. Thomson says, "In reality this prospect includes
more points of biblical and historical interest than any other on
the face of the earth." And Dr. Merrill, after enumerating many of
the famous characters of history that moved under the gaze of this
mount of out-look, adds, "The view is more than a picture. It is a
panorama of great variety, beauty, and significance." To me it is
wonderfully impressive.

As the evening wore on I first gave attention to the large olive-
press close to the mission-house. The press was simple in
construction, consisting of a large bowl-shaped rock from the
center of whose depression rose an upright post of wood; to this
post was fastened a long nearly-horizontal beam, not unlike what
might be seen in the old-time cider-mill or cane-mill; slipped
onto this beam by means of a large hole in its center was a large
stone shaped like a grind-stone; this rock, pushed well up to the
post, rested in the bowl of the other rock. When the natives
pushed or pulled the beam around in tread-mill fashion the
circular stone turned on the beam, and at the same time moved
round and round in the hollow of the other rock. Thus the olives
placed in the bowl-shaped rock were thoroughly crushed and the oil
was caught in vessels.

Then I watch the shepherds leading their large flocks of sheep and
goats in from the mountain pastures to their folds for the night.
All day these faithful guardians have been with their flocks
seeking good pasture and water for them,--no easy task in the fall
of the year near the end of the dry season. They have guarded the
sheep from the danger of beast, or precipice, or pit; have
released those caught in the under-brush; have ministered to the
needs of the sick; and now as night approaches they come leading--
not driving--their flocks in quiet movement from out the mountain-
paths to the sheltering fold in the village for the night, again
to lead them forth on to-morrow, and to do likewise day after day.
To see the tender solicitude of the Oriental shepherd for his
sheep adds much to one's appreciation of the beauty and fitness of
the teaching of the Master in his parable of the Good Shepherd.

But it is near the sunset hour of my only evening in these sacred
mountains. I seek a vantage-ground and watch the King of Day sink
slowly down to his couch of rest behind the western mountains and
the farther sea. Oh, how beautiful! The sky is ablaze with a glory
indescribable by mortal tongue. All space seems vocal with praise
to the God of love and beauty.

In the strange and peaceful quiet of that evening I felt the
presence of a mysterious, subtle influence stirring within me. In
the shower of gold flung out as a good-night to me, and as the
star of evening smiled down upon me in the purpling twilight and
began calling her myriads of companions to their sentry-posts to
keep watch over me through the hours of the night in that strange
land, I felt, I think, the spirit of the poetry,

    "Sunset and evening star,
    And one clear call for me," etc.,

in its fullness. Indeed, the air seemed vibrant with a living
personality, which, without undue stretching of the imagination, I
recognized as the SPIRIT OF HISTORY come to tell me the wonderful
story of those wonderful mountains. Enraptured I listened.

SAID THE SPIRIT: "Long before Gad was attracted by these heights
and valleys, tribes of people lived here in their simplicity, yet
in sin. The land seemed not different from other lands. Here were
towering wooded mountain, rocky ravine, and strong-flowing
fountain; here the beast prowled among the rocks, the bird nested
in the trees, and the sweet-scented flowers graced all the
landscape. The storms beat upon the mountains and the waters
rushed in madness to the valley in the rainy season, and the sun
scorched the vegetation and dried up the fountains in the dry
season. Thus in monotony centuries passed.

"But one day the God of heaven sent messengers to encamp here, and
from that time these mountains on which you now stand have been
considered sacred--because pressed by the feet of angels. Yonder
to the northeast, only a little way, is where that event took
place. Jacob, rich in herds and flocks, was on his way home from
far-off Euphrates, but he was much troubled at the thought of
meeting his brother who had sought to take his life about twenty
years previously. He was picking his way slowly over these
mountains leading his company and cattle when there appeared in
his way a host of angels. He was not frightened, but in gladness
of heart he cried out, 'Mahanaim,'--God's host. And although the
wise people of your day are not quite sure as to the exact
location of this meeting, yet be happy in the thought that you are
now only a few miles from the sacred spot, if, indeed, you are not
just where it occurred. Had you then stood here you could have
seen the glorious light of their presence, and could almost have
heard the rustle of their heaven-plumed pinions.

"After this meeting Jacob wandered a little farther to the south,
and just over yonder, on the Jabbok, he spent a whole night in
prayer and in wrestling with the Angel Jehovah, thinking it was a
mere man. There he gained a great victory over self, and he
received the new name, 'Israel.' And on the next day, a little
farther to the south, he met his erst-while angry and murderous
brother in peace and happy reconciliation.

"A few centuries pass. Then the mighty Moses conquers all this
region; and a little later these Ajlun Mountains were given to the
tribe of Gad as a permanent home. But, in the course of time, the
native tribes prove troublesome; and then the great Gideon, having
gained a decisive victory down in the valley, followed the fleeing
enemy, 'faint, yet pursuing,' right through this very district.
"Later the Ammonites were punished in a great battle by Israel's
'out-cast,' and mighty warrior, Jephthah.

"But look again at Mahanaim where Jacob met the angels. The place
in later centuries became a center of other events of interest.
There, after the death of Saul, Ish-bosheth established his
capital, and forth from its gates he sent his armies under Abner
to fight that he might secure the scepter of all Israel to
himself. But after two years of struggle he was treacherously
slain and his cause was hopelessly lost. There, too, David sought
refuge from Absalom; and out from those same gates through which
Ish-bosheth had sent armies against him, David sent armies against
his own son. And there above one of the gates of Mahanaim the
voice of his weeping arose when he heard the news of the death of
his strange misguided boy.

"Time passed on and the Israelites turned from the God of heaven
to worship at the shrines of other gods. Then, to punish them for
their sin God sent a strange invader into these mountains who
carried away the people by thousands into cruel captivity in a
land far toward the sun-rising.

"Later the Romans came and planted olive trees and built fine
cities and established enduring roads. But Rome is fallen, and
where she moved in power and splendor ruin only remains, and the
unambitious, ignorant Bedouin feeds his flock and lives in
idleness amidst broken down terraces and thorn-covered fertile
soil. Desolate! Yes, dark is the picture. But, what of the night?
Take your place again on the 'watch-tower of Gilead' and scan well
the horizon. Yes, it is well; the morning cometh!"

Having given myself up to reverie and to communing with the SPIRIT
OF HISTORY, as it were, I was for a time forgetful of my
surroundings. The twilight had deepened when I again turned my
thoughts to the village and its people. I look up at some of the
houses near me and see a number of the natives in their dark robes
standing like statues on the flat roofs of their homes, yet
watching every movement of the stranger that has so unexpectedly
appeared in their midst. I do not fear them, but somehow a feeling
of unrest steals over me; they seem like shades of departed
Israelites back again from their long sleep. In the gathering
gloom I pass quickly into the mission-house near by.

This proves to be an evening full of interest to me. I learn that
a mission-service is soon to begin, and that a number of the
villagers will be here for the service. I am impressed with the
quiet (save for the barking of dogs) that prevails in these Arab
villages. I see no drunkenness, and there is no boisterous
rudeness of other sort.

In a little while a score or more of men come quietly to the
mission-house, remove their sandals, pass into the room, and seat
themselves on the earthen floor against the walls. Mrs. Mitry
beckons to me to come to the door; she wanted me to see that row
of forty sandals. She said in her broken way that it was
interesting to her, and she thought it would interest me.

It is only a little while until Mr. Mitry enters and takes his
place at a small table in the center of the room. A half hour or
more is spent in smoking cigarettes--almost every native smokes.
Here it seems that the habit is in no sense considered a vice.
Indeed, the missionary himself, not only smokes, but assists in
making cigarettes for the others. They smoke and smoke until the
room is so darkened that we see each other but dimly through the
haze. I am surprised that I can endure it. The tobacco must be
different from that used in America, for ordinarily a single
cigarette is more offensive to me than was the smoke of nearly
fifty on that evening--for some of the men smoked two or three
apiece in that close room.

After the smoking was over black coffee was served in small cups
holding about one-fourth as much as the average teacup. They sip
this slowly and talk. I note that frequently they are saying
something about "hawadje," and then they fix their eyes upon me.
My dragoman tells me that he has been explaining our hard trip to
Gerasa, that they were skeptical about it, but that he has
convinced them of its verity.

But now it is time for the service. Mr. Mitry opens his Bible and
reads in Arabic the story of Moses' invitation to Hobab. Then he
expounds the Scripture for some time while the men listen with
rapt attention. There are some questions and answers. I understand
only a word now and then, but it is a picture of more than
ordinary interest to me to look upon the expectant, and then the
satisfied faces of these natives.

When the lesson was over a request came from the men for me to
speak to them. Through my dragoman as interpreter I spoke a little
while on the theme of the evening, which meant much to me there
where the migration of Moses was in a measure felt by the early
inhabitants. They listened attentively, and when I had finished
they told my guide to say to "hawadje" that they wanted him to
stay and make his home with them. Then, the meeting over, they
moved out into the darkness with graceful "salaams," and with the
promise of one of their number to accompany us on the morrow. They
said we must not go on alone.

The service-room is now to be my bed-room. A pallet is brought to
me, and on it I am soon trying to sleep. But the beautiful sun-
set, the vision of the past of this region, the mission-service,
the stillness of the night--so still that the very silence seems
audible--keep me awake for some time. I am lying by the "watch-
tower of Gilead." I seem to see the Spirit of Prophecy standing on
its broken battlements, wrapped in the shadows of the night,
looking hopefully toward the place of sun-rising. I call to him,
"Watchman, what of the night?" In sweet tones of assurance comes
the answer, "The morning cometh! The story of the Christ will yet
transform the darkness that rests here into the brightness of
noonday." Then a sweet peace seemed wafted into my soul from out
the unseen somewhere,--but certainly from Him who "giveth his
beloved sleep."





"Down to the Jordan"

CHAPTER VII.


It was early on the following morning when our horses were led
around to the door of the mission-house, but notwithstanding the
early hour a dozen or more of the natives were standing in line to
receive medical attention from the missionary. A few were there
who seemed to have come to witness our departure. Our guide,
promised the night before, was on hand, mounted, ready to lead the
way over what proved to be by far the roughest part of my trip.
For that day my party consisted of four persons. Our new leader,
whose name I did not learn, was a man of about fifty years, and
was a genuine Arab in appearance and dress. But he wore nothing on
his feet--not even sandals. I felt better satisfied, knowing that
he would lead the way on that day, for my dragoman was not
familiar with that part of Gilead. However, when toward the middle
of the afternoon we descended into the Jordan Valley, he was quite
at home again.

Single file we proceed from Coefrinje along a narrow path with the
bushes and briars brushing the sides of our horses and wetting us
with dew. It is not long until we begin to ascend a high ridge.
Here there are no paths whatever, and at times our horses can
scarcely move on because of the steepness of the ascent. But a few
minutes before nine o'clock, after a toilsome struggle, we reach
the summit of the ridge, and here I get my first panoramic view of
the west-Jordan country. It is entrancingly beautiful.

When we had reined up our horses I said to my dragoman, "Tell our
attendants to be still until I have finished speaking; I want to
explain the scene before us." And then while he listened, and
looked as I directed, I said: "That towering height far to the
north is Mount Hermon; the sheet of water some miles on this side
is the Sea of Galilee; to the west of the Sea of Galilee is
Hattin, the Mount of Beatitudes; that white spot southwest of
Hattin is Nazareth; that great plain south of Nazareth is
Esdraelon, the 'battle-field of Palestine'; these rounded
mountains here in the eastern part of the Valley of Esdraelon are
Tabor, Little Hermon, and Gilboa;--on the north is Tabor, at whose
base Napoleon fought; the next is Little Hermon, where lived the
witch of Endor; and the one south of Little Hermon is Gilboa,
where Saul and his sons were slain; that range of mountains
forming the southern wall of Esdraelon is Carmel, where Elijah
held his trial with the priests of Baal; here below us, winding in
its serpentine course, is the Jordan in its great trough or Ghor;
in the center of the picture are the mountains of Samaria, with
Ebal and Gerizim; to the south are the mountains of Judea, where
lies Jerusalem; and that broad expanse of water beyond all these
is the Mediterranean, the 'great sea toward the going down of the
sun.'"

Then I waited for his criticism. He said, "You are right in every
point, but how did you know?" I said, "It is just like the
Palestine of my childhood's fancy that I located in the field back
of the barn on my father's little farm in western Pennsylvania,
and with that picture I have been familiar from the days of my
early youth." It is impossible for me to express what were my
feelings at this supreme moment of my life, as I viewed for the
first time what is distinctively known as the land of Patriarch,
Prophet, Priest, and King--the land of my Redeemer's earthly
pilgrimage--the world's best Holy Land! After some time spent in
viewing that almost matchless scene, and in gathering mountain
lilies, we began our descent into the most remarkable depression
in the world--the great Ghor of the Jordan. The next few hours
afforded little of pleasure. Careful attention had to be given to
our horses as we wound about among the rocks. The horses of both
my dragoman and muleteer fell on this trip, but without serious
results to either horses or riders. It was quite wearying to
proceed thus, so when we finally reached a large sloping rock
under which was a kind of stagnant pool--the only water we had
seen since leaving Coefrinje--I was glad to know that there we
would lunch, even though I could not drink of the water.

This rocky wady is like a prison-house to me. But while eating I
hear sweet strains of music somewhere on the mountains--it is from
a shepherd's pipe. Scanning the heights I see far above me
shepherds with their flocks of sheep and goats, and the music that
I hear is from their reed-harps which they play as they lead the
way over rugged mountain paths to find greener pastures and better
waters.

We tarry here only a little while. Not long after lunch we pass a
grotto of small size in the hill-side. Evidently the carven ruins
are the remains of an ancient temple that stood here in the days
when a pagan people held possession of the land; and I feel sure
that a fountain must exist here a good part of the year, though
now it is dry.

A little farther on is Jabesh-gilead. The story of Jabesh-gilead
is a touching one. The people of the city were besieged by the
Ammonites under their king, Nahash. The men of the city were
willing to make a covenant to serve the Ammonites. But Nahash told
them that the only condition on which he would make a covenant
with them would be to thrust out all their right eyes and lay it
as a reproach upon Israel. The elders of Jabesh asked a respite of
seven days in which to get help, which request was granted. The
situation was critical in the extreme. Messengers left the
besieged city and hurried to the new king of Israel. Saul heard
the story of their distresses. Immediately he gathered an army of
three hundred and thirty thousand men, and, marching rapidly up
the Jordan Valley, crossed the river and attacked the Ammonites
and completely routed them with great slaughter. And thus he saved
the city.

The men of Jabesh-gilead never forgot Saul and his kindness to
them. Forty years later the disastrous battle of Gilboa was
fought. In this battle both Saul and Jonathan were slain. The next
day when the Philistines searched for spoils among the dead they
found Saul and his three sons, and they cut off his head to carry
it as a trophy to Philistia; but they took the headless trunks of
the king and his sons to Beth-shan and fastened them against its
walls as a terrible warning to the Israelites. But, "when the
inhabitants of Jabesh-gilead heard of that which the Philistines
had done to Saul, all the valiant men arose and went all night and
took the body of Saul and the bodies of his sons from the wall of
Bethshan and came to Jabesh and burnt them there. And they took
their bones and buried them under a tree at Jabesh, and fasted
seven days." (II. Samuel 31:11-13.)

Off to the left a little way I see Tabakat Fahil, identified as
Pella, the place to which the Christians of Jerusalem fled just
before the siege of Titus in obedience to the prophetic warning of
Christ.

It is two o'clock when we reach the Jordan Valley, at a point a
little south of Beth-shan, which is on the west side of the river.
We now turn northward and pursue our way steadily near the
mountains until after five o'clock; then we turn toward the river,
which we reach at sun-down.

The Jordan Valley is covered with a growth of thorn said to be
like that used in the crowning of Christ at the time of his mock-
trial. We eat of a delicious yellow berry now ripening on these
thorns. We pass two or three small villages, the names of which I
could not learn. We cross a number of small streams this
afternoon, the largest of which is the Tayibeh. All of these
streams are thickly lined with reeds and pink oleander; so thick
is this growth in some places that the streams are completely
hidden. Our Arab guide springs down into each of these water-
brooks and hands drink to us, but he drinks, I think, after the
manner of the drinking of "Gideon's three hundred," in the time of
their being tested; that is, by a quick movement of the hand
throwing water into his mouth.

Pushing rapidly across the open valley we startle gazelles from
their hiding-places among the reeds. Then, near the river, we pass
several encampments of Bedouins whose tents are black as those of
Kedar. At last, after being in the saddle all of ten hours, just
at sun-set, we reach the Jordan at the bridge of Jisr el Mejamia,
six miles south of the Sea of Galilee. Just across on the other
side of the river we shall tarry through the night.

The way has been long and trying. I am very weary. But, now, just
before me the Jordan--sacred stream! And then, on the other side,
rest! Happy, soul-cheering thought!





"At the Bridge"

CHAPTER VIII.


The bridge of Jisr el Mejamia was at the time of my visit the only
available one for travel between the Sea of Galilee and the Dead
Sea. It is a stone bridge and was built by the Romans nearly, or
quite, two thousand years ago. It could scarcely be crossed by
carriages at present as the ascent to the highest point is by a
kind of step arrangement. It even seemed a wise precaution for us
not to attempt to ride over on horse-back--the stones were very
smooth and slippery. The present name of the structure means
"bridge of the messengers," and it was so named because here
messengers from various points in the land used to meet to
exchange messages.

I am glad to reach this place, for again I am very tired. The
distance traveled to-day is said to be fifty miles. But when we
arrive here the road and bridge are crowded with sheep and goats
being brought in from the valley for safety in the night. My first
sight of the Jordan, which at this place is clear and sparkling,
does not particularly impress me. I long for rest, and so we do
not tarry, but pass directly into the village lying just at the
west end of the bridge.

Oh, the wretchedness of this place! I wonder what kind of
entertainment I can find here. There is little choice as to a
place of lodging. The best and only accommodation that the
miserable village affords is what was formerly used by robbers as
a prison-house for their victims, but which is now used as a kind
of store-room. There is but one room, and its earthen floor is
littered over with filth of almost every description, while dust
and cob-webs everywhere abound. This is the RECEPTION-ROOM for our
party of four.

While my dragoman busied himself in getting supper, I sat on a box
making notes of what I had seen and experienced that day. Just
then the place served as KITCHEN and WRITING-ROOM. I wrote
rapidly, and as I wrote the thought that somewhere that day I had
crossed the path of the Master in his Perean ministry thrilled me.
I said, "Mr. Barakat, I am going down to the Jordan for a while
after supper." He replied, "All right, and I'll go with you'."
"No," said I, "I want to be alone down at the bridge." He simply
said, "I'll go with you."

Our supper was a light affair, but our host brought a platter of
something that looked like dark beeswax, but which proved to be a
palatable food called "halawa." We ate from the floor of this
room, which then became our DINING-ROOM.

After supper I was ready to go down to the river, not more than a
hundred yards from our lodging-place. When we started, our host
stepped to a corner of the room, picked up a gun, and prepared to
go with us. I told my dragoman to tell him not to go with us. The
reply was, "He will go with us." "Well," I said, "if he must go
make him put down that gun; it will spoil my evening of quiet
thought at the sacred river." The answer was: "Make no further
objection. Have you not noticed that everybody here carries a gun?
He knows what he is doing. This is the most disreputable place
along the river. Those Bedouins of the black tents that we passed
over yonder would want no better opportunity than to find you, who
are expected to have money, alone at the bridge." I accepted the
situation, and said, "All right, but I shall expect you both to be
obedient to the extent of giving me a period of quiet as long as I
wish to remain."

But, before we go to the bridge, let me tell of that night in that
miserable place of filth. At the time of retiring my host said to
me through my interpreter that I could have choice of beds--that I
could either sleep on the counter, which consisted of a couple of
boards laid carelessly across boxes, or that I could sleep behind
the counter on the floor! After looking at the boards, and
thinking what would likely be the result should I attempt to sleep
there, I made choice of the floor. The room then became my
BEDROOM.

Oh, that night! I did not sleep a half-hour. The place seemed
alive with vermin. My host slept on the counter. He did not seem
to be annoyed in the least. True, he scratched, but he snored an
accompaniment to his scratching throughout the night. I could only
scratch and listen to him; there was no snoring for me. After that
night it required frequent bathing and much searching for a week
or ten days before I felt free from the awful pests of that filthy
den. Thus it was that my first crossing of the Jordan did not
bring me to a "land of rest," but to an experience akin to
distraction.

But now to the bridge. We pass quietly among the curious gazers
down to the river. Just south of the bridge I go down to the
river's edge and bathe my hands, face, and feet in water that only
a few hours ago was in the lake where the waves were once stilled
by His quiet command of power--"Peace, be still," and where He at
another time walked amidst the billows to meet his own; in water
that will hurry on down the valley to the place where He was
baptized; and then it will pass on into oblivion in the Salt Sea
of Death. Then I try, with surprising success, to drink of the
water like our Arab guide drank to-day. Then we walk to the
bridge, at the approach of which I ask my men to tarry while I go
out on it alone to meditate.

I have reached this place by the expenditure of much physical
energy. I am very weary over my hard day in the saddle. But when I
seat myself on the highest point of the bridge, and give myself up
to reverie, I feel the flood of sentiment and rejoice. The moon is
about one-half hour above the mountains of Gilead; a halo seems to
gild the heights to the east and to the west. I am just above the
Jordan; its rippling waters tell me of Abraham, of Jacob, of
Joshua, of Saul, of David, of Elijah, of Elisha, of Naaman, of
John the Baptist, and of Jesus of Nazareth. How sweet and musical
is the story! How impressive its truths as I hear it to-night?
Then I watch the play of the moon-light on the water,--the
glittering sheen on the smooth surface above the bridge, and the
flashes of light on the rapids below. It is all so beautiful!

And this is the Jordan! For many years I have heard of it; I have
read of it; I have sung of it. It has been to me for many years a
type of death. Again I look upon the calm blue depths on the
north, and then again on the rapids below--I see the peace here,
and hear the rush there. Then I turn my eyes again to the
mountains, and upward to the moon, and past the moon to the stars
--and by faith beyond the stars to search for Him of this land,
because of whose earth-life I am here, and upon whom I rely for
support in the hour of my approach to the shore of that river of
which this is the type.





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