of the pilgrims. The water was of a dirty yellow, and the river was not more than eighty or a hundred feet wide; the current is quite strong, and at the bathing place the bed is covered with rough stones, that made walking unpleasant to our bare and tender feet.
Willow, tamarisk, and balsam trees fringe the banks, and in a little grove of these our lunch was prepared, while those of us who wanted to wash off the salt of the Dead Sea went to take a bath in the Jordan. I got rid of the sticky sensation, and emerged from the Jordan without much delay. The water was altogether too cold for comfort.
In my younger days I thought the Jordan was something like the Mississippi, my impression being derived from the old hymn which says:
“On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand,
And cast a wistful eye.”
Elsewhere the same hymn records that:
“Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood