Among the great institutions of Chicago is the church. No greater force for righteousness exists anywhere. The great, stately edifices are scattered over the entire city; from the business center back to the grand trees of the suburbs. Their tall spires point solemnly heavenward, as if to lift the soul above the vulgar worship of mammon, and at intervals the sweet tones of chimes come floating down into the streets, telling that wealth is not all, folly is not all, business is not all! but that there is something purer, nobler, waiting high above the golden cross which the sunlight bathes so lovingly.

The music at the fashionable churches is superb. The organist is a professor of reputation, and the choir is made up of singers of some note who devote themselves to concerts and public amusements on secular days.

Not many years ago the tenor of one of the best choirs in the city was also the popular singer in a State street “Free and Easy.” He had a magnificent voice, and his secular engagements were constant and profitable; often keeping him in the concert hall all through Saturday night, and until the small hours of Sunday morning. The tenor unfortunately had a weakness for his glass, and it was a constant wonder to his friends that he contrived to get his head clear enough by church time on Sunday morning to take his place in the choir of St. —— church. For a long while, however, he managed to fill both engagements creditably, but at length misfortune overtook him. He had sung at the “Free and Easy” on Saturday night and had gotten through the morning service with credit. The eloquence of the preacher lulled him into a profound slumber, and all through the sermon he was dreaming of the concert hall and the jolly crowd assembled to hear him render his great song of “Muldoon.” The sermon over he was aroused from his slumber by a fellow member of the choir, who whispered that they were waiting for his solo. Still half asleep, and with his head yet full of the saloon and the applause awaiting him, he staggered to the choir rail, looking about him, broke out lustily:

The reader may picture to himself the sensation the tenor’s solo produced in the church.

The recklessness with which the churches rush into debt is appalling. No other class of real estate in Chicago is so heavily incumbered as that of religious associations; and this in spite of the fact that no sort of property has a more uncertain tenure of its income, the whole depending, in a large measure, on the popularity of the ministers, and the good will and prosperity of the members. Nearly the whole of the debt thus created, is for the enlargement of the churches or constructing new ones. Scarcely any of the congregations go into debt for the purpose of increasing the minister’s salary, or to enlarge the contributions to missionary funds or charitable enterprises. All is for show. Old fashioned, comfortable churches, free from debt, are torn down or sold, and new edifices, rich and costly in every detail, are erected. A little money is advanced, the church plastered over with mortgages, and the next generation left to pay for the vanity of the present. Sometimes the mortgages are paid, but too often the reverse is the case. The mortgage is foreclosed, the beautiful temple is sold, and perhaps is converted into a theatre, concert hall or factory.

So handsome are the churches, as a rule, so conspicuously do wealth and fashion thrust themselves forward on all sides, that the poor rarely seek them. They are too fine, and the pride of the honest poor man will not permit him to take his place in a house of worship where he is certain to be looked coldly upon, and made to feel his lack of worldly goods.

Fashion and wealth rule with iron hands, even in the house of God, and in these gorgeous temples, the class who were nearest and dearest to the Master’s heart, have no place. But what have the churches to fear? Are they not strong in the power of God?