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"