brevity of ancient authors, who touch for a moment only upon subjects the most exciting to modern curiosity, is indeed an exercise of patience to those who, for the first time, come to acquaint themselves with the mortifying fact that where pages of description are eagerly looked for—five words, or, at the most, as many lines, are what we must be content to accept at their hands. Why did not Herodotus describe to us the Al-Kuds—the Holy city which he visited?[1] Why not tell us something of the secluded people and their singular worship? So it is as to Diodorus, and Strabo, and Pliny; and so, in many instances, is it with the prolix Josephus; who gives us so often more than we care to read; but fails to impart the very information which we are in need of, on points of importance. The Jordan—which, physically and historically alike, is the most remarkable river in the world—is mentioned by ancient authors only in the most cursory manner, as dividing the countries on its right and left bank—or as emptying itself into the Asphaltic Lake. Even the Biblical writers, although the river is mentioned by them very often, say little that implies their acquaintance with the facts of its physical peculiarities. And yet, unconscious as they seem to have been of these facts, they drew from this source very many of their images. Has there ever been poetry where there is not a river? This Jordan—rich in aspects alternately of gloom, and of gay luxuriance, sometimes leaping adown rapids, and then spreading
