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"