him, and ordained him a preacher; and from this old house we had hunted up in the street which is miscalled Straight, he had started out on that bold missionary career which he prosecuted till his death.  It was not the house of the disciple who sold the Master for thirty pieces of silver.  I make this explanation in justice to Judas, who was a far different sort of man from the person just referred to.  A very different style of man, and lived in a very good house.  It is a pity we do not know more about him.

I have given, in the above paragraphs, some more information for people who will not read Bible history until they are defrauded into it by some such method as this.  I hope that no friend of progress and education will obstruct or interfere with my peculiar mission.

The street called Straight is straighter than a corkscrew, but not as straight as a rainbow.  St. Luke is careful not to commit himself; he does not say it is the street which is straight, but the “street which is called Straight.”  It is a fine piece of irony; it is the only facetious remark in the Bible, I believe.  We traversed the street called Straight a good way, and then turned off and called at the reputed house of Ananias.  There is small question that a part of the original house is there still; it is an old room twelve or fifteen feet under ground, and its masonry is evidently ancient.  If Ananias did not live there in St. Paul’s time, somebody else did, which is just as well.  I took a drink out of Ananias’ well, and singularly enough, the water was just as fresh as if the well had been dug yesterday.

We went out toward the north end of the city to see the place where the disciples let Paul down over the Damascus wall at dead of night—­for he preached Christ so fearlessly in Damascus that the people sought to kill him, just as they would to-day for the same offense, and he had to escape and flee to Jerusalem.

Then we called at the tomb of Mahomet’s children and at a tomb which purported to be that of St. George who killed the dragon, and so on out to the hollow place under a rock where Paul hid during his flight till his pursuers gave him up; and to the mausoleum of the five thousand Christians who were massacred in Damascus in 1861 by the Turks.  They say those narrow streets ran blood for several days, and that men, women and children were butchered indiscriminately and left to rot by hundreds all through the Christian quarter; they say, further, that the stench was dreadful.  All the Christians who could get away fled from the city, and the Mohammedans would not defile their hands by burying the “infidel dogs.”  The thirst for blood extended to the high lands of Hermon and Anti-Lebanon, and in a short time twenty-five thousand more Christians were massacred and their possessions laid waste.  How they hate a Christian in Damascus!—­and pretty much all over Turkeydom as well.  And how they will pay for it when Russia turns her guns upon them again!