f our
biggest meetin' houses need 'em bad to tell folks what they stand for.
If it wuzn't for them steeples poor folks who wander into 'em out of
their stifling alleys and dark courts wouldn't mistrust what they wuz
for. They would see the elegantly dressed throng enter and pass over
carpeted aisles into their luxuriously cushioned pews, and kneel down
on soft hassocks and pray: "Thy kingdom come," and "Give us this day
our daily bread," and "give us what we give others." These poor folks
can't go nigh 'em, for the usher won't let 'em, but they meet 'em
through the week, or hear of 'em, and know that they do all in their
power to keep his kingdom of Love and Justice away from the world.
They herd in their dark, filthy, death-cursed tenements, not fit for
beasts, owned by the deacon of that church, and all the week run the
gauntlet of those drink hells, open to catch all their hard-earned
pennies, owned by the warden and vestrymen and upheld by the clergymen
and them high in authority, and extolled as the Poor Man's Club.
Wimmen who see their husbands enticed to spend all their money there
and leave them and their children starving and naked; mothers who see
their young boys in whom they tried to save a spark of their childish
innocence ground over in these mills of the devil into brutal ruffians
who strike down the care-worn form of the one that bore them in agony,
and bent over their cradle with a mother's love and hope. As they see
all this, and know that this is the true meaning of the prayers put up
in them elegant churches, don't they need steeples to tell that
they're built to show Christ's love and justice to the world? Yes,
indeed; they need steeples and high ones, too.

But this city of Robert Strong's didn't need steeples, as I say. It
wuz Christianity built in bricks and mortar, practical religion lived
right before 'em from day to day, comfortable houses for workmen,
which they could hope to earn and call their own. Pleasant homes where
happy love could dwell in content, because no danger stood round, hid
in saloons to ruin husband, son and father; comfortable houses where
health and happiness could dwell. Good wages, stiddy work, and a share
in all the profits made there; good hard work whilst they did work,
ensurin' success and prosperity; but short hours, ensurin' sunthin'
beyond wages.

A big house, called a Pleasure House, stood in the centre of the
broad, handsome streets, a sort of a centrepiece fro