The crash of tamborines, the jarring roar of a badly strung snare-drum, and the troubled, fitful echoing of a discordant chorus breaks through the quiet atmosphere of the darkening street. People turn and look back, some with a look of perplexity, others with a smile of contempt, while those going in the direction of the sound quicken their footsteps. As they pass us we hear them say “the Salvation Army—an all-night meeting,” and instinctively we turn and follow them. As we draw nearer the people on the sidewalks thicken, while the music, which in the distance sounded at first like the wild air of a street minstrel ditty, assumes the style of a religious chant. The music, if it can so be called, issues from a dark, dense circular mass of people in the middle of the street. Suddenly it breaks into nervous and excited motion, and takes up a line of march, led by a man who walks backwards, facing those who follow, and beating time with a baton. He leads them in a high pitched, cracked voice, which at the higher notes becomes positively painful, but is always earnest and impassioned. It is a motley group that follows him. Prominent among them are the women, who, regardless of the mud and slush, heedless of the coarse and impertinent remarks of loafers as they pass, trudge patiently, singing in a chirpy, squeaky voice, which has been utterly broken and toggled up by constant and strained use in the chilly, open air. Some of them are YOUNG AND PRETTY, slyly watching the crowds as they pass, while others of them are middle-aged and hard-featured, the material of which grass widows are made. Each of them carries a tambourine which they beat out of all unison, and which, did they but know it, are calculated to do more harm than good, as their music is enough to drive any man to madness. On they march, the wild, weird music rising an falling fitfully, while every now and then the sharp ejaculations of “Praise God!” “Hallelujah!” etc., cut through the clangor like nervous shafts of sound. On either side of the column march a mob of men, women and urchins, some jeering them, others sympathizing with them, while hundreds tramp along out of sheer curiosity. The crowd thickens, sways forward anxious to obtain favorable seats in the hall, as it is now known to all them that there is going to be a “knee drill and an all night hand to hand fight with the devil while the gates of hell are to be stormed towards morning by the forlorn hope.” The long, low barrack-like building is reached, the wide doors are flung open and the eager mob follow the soldiers with a rush into the vast and garishly lit interior. Then a scene opens on the eye which can only be witnessed in a great city. The high amphitheatre at the far end is soon densely packed by Salvation army soldiers, both men and women, most of the former dressed in red and blue coats with the breast illuminated with medals in various designs. The huge barn-like edifice