In a Syrian Saddle

by A. Goodrich-Freer

For ourselves, however, the fords of Jabbok represented primarily the means of taking a bath, and secondarily, those of making tea. The sun was still hot; we had descended considerably since leaving Ammân, and the bushes offered welcome shade. The Circassian soldier brought the Lady a handful of ripe blackberries—the first we had seen in Syria, where blackberries are abundant enough, but for lack of moisture never seem to ripen. The oleanders, with their rich crimson; the rare feast of abundant verdure; the grey water rushing upon its white bed, with the effect of blue which gives to the Jabbok its modern name of Ez-Zerka—"the Blue"; the contented horses cooling their limbs in a deep pool, made a vision we were loth to disturb; but we were already late, and after an hour's repose were bidden to mount once more. When we had crossed the rushing ford and regained the plateau we realised that our shadows were already lengthening.

We had now crossed an important political boundary, for the Jabbok is one of the three rivers at right angles with the Jordan—the Arnon, Jabbok, and Yarmuk—which divide Eastern Palestine into three provinces; physically, as well as, for the most part, politically, though their disentanglement is difficult, distinct. Behind us was the Belka, the land of Ammon and Moab, practically the Peræa of ancient history, in the time of the Herods politically associated with Galilee, and always regarded by the Jew as being as much a Jewish province as Judæa or Galilee. The climate of the Belka is temperate, and in spite of insufficient water at its highest points the treeless plateau is ever fresh and breezy, providing pasture for innumerable herds. It is but seventy miles from the orange gardens of the Philistine plain, but eight hours' direct ride from the palms of Jericho, and yet the Arabs have a proverb: "They said to the Cold: 'Where shall we find thee?' And he answered: 'In the Belka.' 'And if not there?' 'In Baalbek is my home.'" Now Baalbek, as we saw it in August, lies under the shadow of snowcapped mountains.

Now we were coming into 'Ajlûn, the land of Gilead, "the region of Decapolis," a district of forests—falling, alas! before the axe of the Circassian—of springs and streams, tributaries of the Jordan as well as of the Jabbok and the Yarmuk; the land whence "a company of Ishmaelites came with their camels, bearing spicery and balm and myrrh, going to carry it down to Egypt." There is still "balm in Gilead." We had scarcely crossed the river when our soldier, stooping from his saddle, snatched a handful of deliciously fragrant herbs, which he presented to the Lady, who had no opportunity of verifying their species, but was quite prepared to believe that she had enjoyed the sweetness of the balsamum Gileadense, though with suppressed misgivings that it might be only the melissa officinalis. Indeed, the low growth of artemisia and other herbs throughout this region is so sweet that, in the wilder parts of the Belka frequented by gazelle, which feed upon it, the Arabs constantly pick up their droppings for the pleasure of the fragrance.

Low ranges of hills to the east lay between us and that far-away fascination of the desert of which we had first, and most fully, realised the spell at Mshatta, making us feel that we were, in some degree, coming once more into touch with humanity and the commonplace of life, and farther away from that dim region known to so few, and which throughout history has always been the great source of danger, the check upon the civilisation of East Jordan, ever open to the great hungry desert, whence in all ages wild tribes have come forth to seek sustenance from the fertile tablelands of Bashan, Gilead, and Moab.

Here not Nature and the desert but Art and Greece were the prominent facts in the minds of some among us. Ammân, fresh in our memory, had been already an important stronghold two hundred years before Christ, and, later, a member of the Decapolis, although, alone of the ten cites, lying south of the Jabbok. Here, as never before, were we able to realise something of the nature and meaning of that mysterious alliance of the Decapolis, of which the origin is unknown, but which we had seen represented in miniature in the present-day policy of playing off the Circassians against the Bedawy tribes of that same district, which, even two thousand years ago, was then, as now, the check upon all prosperity and progress. There seems little doubt that this confederacy—like the Arab dynasty of the Ghassanides at a later date under Trajan—was intended to balance these Semitic influences; and these cities were thoroughly Hellenic, not only in art and culture, but, unlike other parts of Eastern Palestine, in religion also, the cult of Astarte alone being borrowed from their surroundings. Most of them were placed, like Ammân, on either side of a stream, with fertile land all round about, not on a hill, as was the Semitic custom, to judge from the positions of most of the villages one sees west of the Jordan. Their pastimes, too, were Greek—the theatres, the bath, the circus. All had the street of columns, the forum, the temples such as we had seen at Ammân; each was approached by just such a road as we were treading now.

While we talked and mused the sun had set, the short evening glow was in the west, and we were soon cautiously walking our horses in the dim twilight. Suddenly a stately arch reared itself against the fading sky; while beyond, far as the eye could reach, dusky columns arose against the background of the dark hillside. Before we could take in the scene the veil of night had fallen, for here in the East "with one stride comes the dark." We could see no longer; but we knew we were descending into a valley, for the sound of the rushing stream at the bottom seemed to get nearer, till at last we felt that our horses' feet were in the water. The village was asleep, but few lights shone from the windows of the frugal Circassian inhabitants, and we could only trust to our kindly animals, who were taking their lead from that of the officer, who rode in advance. We were ascending a very steep hill; soon we had reached level ground, and we awaited the coming of the responsible members of our party. Looking back we could see the great lordly columns standing out snow-white in the starlight, monuments of a race, an age, a system, a religion that had perished like last year's snow, leaving not a link with to-day, except that common aspiration after happiness, present and future, which had inspired the existence of the Past, as it still inspires those who gaze upon its monuments. Never had the Past seemed to stoop towards us as now in this eastern starlight, and it seemed as if we might almost hope for answer when we asked:

"Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas,

Can ye listen in your silence,

Can your mystic voices tell us

Where ye hide?"