My Three Days In Gilead | Page 4

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