his head back sharply.  On one side of the room there are 19 hat hooks, and on the other 24.  There are seats in the place for about 100.  The members number about 20, and the average congregation, entirely working people, and of homely, orderly character, will range from 80 to 100.  The room is connected with the Wesley circuit; every Sunday there are two services in it; a meeting for religious purposes is held each Thursday night; and the preaching is done by “locals” and “regulars.”  The singing is neither good, nor bad, nor indifferent; but a mixture of the whole three qualities.  It is accompanied by a small harmonium, played by a young lady in moderately tasteful style.  The services are simple and hearty, and whilst there may be a little plaintive noisiness now and then in them—­a few penitent flutterings—­they are generally, and remembering the complexion of the congregation, respectably conducted.

“It’s a regular bird nest, and you’ll never get to it, unless you ask the neighbouring folk,” said a friend to us whilst talking about the Revivalists’ tabernacle.  To the bottom of Pitt-street we then went, and seeing two or three females and a man dart out of a dim-looking passage beneath one of the side arches of the railway bridge there, we concluded that we were near the “nest.”  Having sauntered about for a few moments, and assured ourselves that this was really the place we were in search of, we went to the arch, walked six or seven yards forward, looked up a dark, tortuous, narrow passage on the right, and entered it.  In the centre of the passage there was a hole, through which you could see telegraph wires and the sky, on one side a grim crevice running narrowly to the top of the railway bridge, and ahead a shadowy opening like the front of an underground store, with a wooden partition, in the centre of which was a small square of glass.  Theseus, who got through the Labyrinth, would have been puzzled with this mystic passage.  We never saw such a time-worn and dumfounding road to any place, and if those who patronise it regularly had done their best to discover the essence of dinginess and intractibility, they could not have hit upon a better spot than this.  A warm air wave, similar to that you expect on entering a bakehouse, met us just when we had passed the wooden partition.  In the centre of the room there was a stove, almost red-hot.  This apartment, which was filled with small forms, was, we ascertained, a Sunday-school.  At the bottom end there were some narrow steps, leading through a large hole into a room above—­the “chapel.”  A fat man could never get up these steps, and a tall one would injure his head if he did not stoop very considerably in ascending them.