We are told, with some show of truth, that this age shall be noted in
history as one given to the study of social problems. The contemporary
literature of a country is a good index to what people are thinking
about. Magazines are, as a rule, for their time, and deal with the
forces upward in men’s minds. The most cursory glance at their contents
will show the predominance of the Social Problem treated from some
phase or other. The best minds are engaged as partisans. Social
science may be said to be the order of the day. It has crushed poetry
to the skirts of advertising, romance is its happy basking ground.
The drama has made it its own. There are some, fogies of course, so
says your sapient scientist, who believe that the social science so
spasmodically treated in current literature is but a passing fad, and
that poetry shall be restored to her old quarters, romance amuse as of
old, and the drama be winnowed of rant, scenic sensation, and bestial
morality. These dreams may be vain, but then even fogies have their
hopes. A branch of this science—the tree is overshadowing—treats of the
literature and the masses. Anything about the masses interests me.
When I read the other day, “Literature and the Masses; a Social Study,”
among the contents of a _fin de siècle_ magazine, I would have pawned
my wearing apparel rather than go home without it. Its reading was
painful, as all reading must be where the author knows less about his
subject than the ordinary reader. Later, another article fell in my
way, dealing with the same subject. Its author had more material, but
his use of it was clumsy. It was while reading this article, that I
noted the utter stupidity with which things Catholic are treated by the
ordinary literary purveyor. These ephemeral pen-wielders seem to hold
the most fantastic notions of the Church. What Azarias says of Emerson
is true of them: “They seek truth in every religious and philosophical
system outside of the teachings of the Catholic Church.” They will not
drink from Rome. To correct all this author’s errors is not my plan. In
this paper I restrict myself to a part of the same subject, Literature
and Our Catholic Poor. I prefer an independent study to patchwork. It
is the usual thing in such studies to present credentials. I present
mine. Five years’ life in the tenement districts of New York and other
great cities of the Union, in full contact, from the peculiarity of my
position, with the poor. During these years I was led to make a study
of their reading. This study, to be intelligible, must be prefaced by
a few hints on their life and environment. It is useless to deny the
often-repeated assertion that their lot in the great cities is hard
and crushing. It is a continual struggle for nominal existence. The
children commence work at a premature age. Their education is meagre
and broken. Marriage is entered in early life, without the slightest
provision. To these marriages there is little selection. The girls have
been brought up in factories, household restraint frets their soul. Of
household economy, so necessary to the city toiler, they know nothing.
If ends meet it is well. If not, there is trust and sorrow. The day
of their marriage means a few stuffy rooms, badly ventilated, filled
with the most bizarre and useless furniture put in by shylock, who
will, in the coming years, exact ten times their value. Thus started,
children are born, puny and sickly, prey of physician and druggist.
If these children survive, at an early age they follow the father and
mother by entering foundries and factories to toil life’s weary round
away. When they die the family is pauperized for years. It is a common
plaint of the tenements that “I would have been worth something if my
boy had not died.” Every death is not only a drain on the immediate
family, but on their friends, who are supposed to turn out and give
“the corpse a decent burial.” The decent burial means coaches, flowers
and whiskey. The most casual observer must notice the giant part liquor
plays, in the lives of the poor. Liquor and its concomitant, tobacco,
in the deadly form of cigarettes, are known to the boy. He has been
brought up in that atmosphere. His father has his cheap, ill-smelling
cigar and frothy pint for supper. His mother and a few gossiping
friends have chased the heavy day with a few pints “because they were
dry.” He delights in being the Mercury of the “growler.” Hanging by
the balustrade he sips the beer, “just to taste it.” That taste, alas,
lingers through life. As he grows older it becomes more refined. His
teachers are the sumptuous, dazzling bar-rooms guarding each city
corner, while betraying the nation. The owners of these vice palaces
are wise in their generation. For his stuffy home, broken furniture and
cheerless aspects, they show him wide, airy rooms, polished furniture,
bevelled glass mirrors, dazzling light, music, gaiety, companionship,
and the illusive charm of revelry. The reading matter in such places is
on a par with the other attractions. It is sensational. Its authors are
skilled in the base development of the passions. It smacks obscenity,
and early dulls the intellect to finer things. To be enmeshed in its
threads is the greatest sorrow of a young life. When the bar-room
does not allure, there is another siren to be taken into account. It
is the promiscuous gathering at the neighbor’s house who has been so
unfortunate as to find a music dealer to trust him with a piano at
three times its price. Here gather the Romeos and Juliets to
“Sing and dance
And parley vous France,
Drink beer Alanna
And play on the grand piano.”
The songs are of no literary value, sometimes comic, sometimes
sentimental, more often with an ambiguity that is more suggestive
than downright obscenity. Of the so-called comic, “McGinty” was a
great hit, while “After the Ball” was its equal in the sentimental
line. It is a strange sight to see pale, flaccid, worn-out Juliet
thrum the indifferent piano, while near her in a dramatic posture,
learned from some melo-dramatic actor, stands twisted Romeo, singing
some sentimental song, balancing his voice to the poor performer,
and indifferent piano. To hear such stuff—I speak from auricular
demonstration—is no small affliction. After songs come dances, weary
night flies quickly away. Work comes with the morrow. Sleepy and tired
they buckle on their armor and go out uncomplainingly to tear and
wear the sickly body. Thus generation after generation passes to the
tread-mill and beyond. It is not to be expected that the literature of
such people would be of a high grade. To say that they have no time
to read were a fallacy, inasmuch as they do read. Here the question
arises, what do they read? I answer that they possess a literature of
their own, both in weekly journals and published volumes. They support,
strange as it may seem, a school of novelists for their delectation.
These journals are a medley of blood-and-thunder stories, far-fetched
jokes, sporting news, etiquette as she is above stairs, marriage hints,
palmistry, dress making, now and then a page of original topical music
hemmed with fake advertising. The point to be noted in these journals,
a shrewd business one, they are never beyond the reader’s intelligence.
Their novels must be simple and amusing. That is, their author must
know how to spin a story. He must amuse. Each weekly instalment must
have its comic as well as tragic denouement. The hero must be a
villain of the most approved type, neither wanting in courage nor in
cunning. The heroine must be on the side of the angelic, mesmerized
by the prowess of her hero. A vast quantity of supers are constantly
on hand, in case of emergency. Murders, suicides, broken hearts and
lesser afflictions are of frequent occurrence. The hero may perish
at any moment, provided a more reckless devil takes his place. Half
a dozen heroines may come to grief in one serial. An author must be
lavish. Provided he is, style is not reckoned, and bad grammar but
adds a taking flavor. Woe be to the editor who would inflict on his
readers a novel of the school of Henry James or Paul Bourget. The
masses hold that the primary condition of fiction is to amuse. They
are right. These journals are carried in ladies’ satchels, they stick
out of young men’s pockets. On ferry-boats, in street cars, in their
stuffy rooms, in the few minutes snatched from the dinner hour they
are eagerly read. They may be crumpled and thrust into the pocket at
any moment. No handwashing is necessary to handle them. Their cost is
light, five cents a week. By a system of interchange a club of five
may for that cost peruse five different story papers. This system is
in general practice. The greatest amount for the least money strongly
appeals to the poor. The novels in book form are of a much lower grade
than the serials. Written by profligate men and women, in a vile style,
their only object is to undermine morality. Falsity to the marriage
vows, deception, theft, the catalogue of a criminal court, is strongly
inculcated as the right path. These novels, generally in paper covers,
are showy and eye-catching. A voluptuous siren on the cover, with an
ambiguous title allures the minor to his ruin. I have known not a few
book-sellers who passed as eminently respectable, do a thriving trade
in this class of books. The fact that they kept the stock in drawers
in the rear of their stores told of their conscious complicity in the
destruction and degradation of our youth. These novels are cheap,
within the reach of the poor, a point to be noted. The question
arises, what can be done to counteract this spread of pernicious
literature among our Catholic poor? There is but one answer on the
lips of those who should be heard; fight it with good literature—yet
literature not beyond their understanding. Put in their hands good
novels, whose primary purpose is to amuse. The good-natured gentleman
who would put into the hands of the poor as a Christmas gift Fabiola,
Callista, Pauline Seward, etc., would make a great mistake. These books
would become playthings for greasy babies or curled paper to light the
“evening smoke.” The bread winners will not be bored. They have worked
hard all day, and at evening want some kind of amusement. The book
must be nervy, a tonic. Dictionaries are scarce in the haunts of the
poor. Footnotes are an abomination. The author must whisk the reader
along. A rapid canter, only broken by hearty laughter or honest pity.
Have we any Catholic novels that will do this? It is the plaint of the
know-nothing scribes, tossing their empty skulls, to write a capital
No. From experience I answer yes. The novels of that true writer of
boys’ stories, Father Finn, are just the thing for the poor. They
want to read of boys that are not old men, none of your goody-goody
little nobodies. A boy is no fool. In real life he would not chum with
your sweet little Toms, your praying, psalm-singing Jamies, and your
dying angelic Marys. Nor shall he in books, thank heaven. Father Finn
has drawn the boy as he is. His books would be joyfully welcomed, if
published in a cheap paper form, say at twenty-five cents per copy.
List to the wail of the fattening Catholic publisher, who will read
that idea. It is, however, a sane one. If Protestants can make cheap
books, thereby creating the market, why not Catholics? Until this is
done it is useless to cry out, as authors do, nobody will buy my books.
Yes, your books will be bought if they are reasonable in price, and
properly placed before the public. As it is, your books are snuffed
out by the immense amount of trash handled by the ordinary Catholic
bookseller, and you help this by writing deep-dyed hypocrisy of the
trash-makers. Azarias mildly expresses my idea in one of his posthumous
papers: “Catholic reviewers must plead guilty to the impeachment of
having been in the past too laudatory of inferior work.” The stories
of that sterling man, Malcolm Johnston, called Dukesborough Tales, I
once gave to a wretched family. On visiting them a week after, what
delight it was to hear the health-giving laughter they had found in
them. To another family I gave Billy Downs. Asking how they liked them,
I was told that they were as “fine as silk.” A youth of fourteen, his
face decidedly humorous, volunteered the criticism that “Billy had
no grit.” During the illness of four or five patients of mine I read
the assembled family “Chumming With a Savage,” “Joe of Lahaina.” When
I came to the final sentence in Joe, where Charlie Stoddard leaves
him “sitting and singing in the mouth of his grave—clothed all in
death,” two of the youngsters burst into tears, while the father much
agitated, said, “Doctor, I don’t see how he had the heart to leave
him.” They were so much attached to the book that, although it had
been my choice old chum in many a land, I gave it to them. Lately I
gave “Life Around Us,” a collection of stories by Maurice F. Egan.
It was a great success. Egan has the true touch for the masses when
he wishes. Another little story much prized was Nugent Robinson’s
“Better Than Gold.” To these might be added in cheap form those of
Marian Brunowe, May Crowley, Helen Sweeney, a promising young writer,
and Lelia Bugg. How to reach the poor with these books presents few
obstacles. Cardinal Vaughan has solved the difficulty in England.
Attach to every parish church in city and country a library of well
selected interesting Catholic books. Let their circulation be free of
charge. The great majority of Catholic poor attend some of the Sunday
Masses. If the library is open, they will gladly take a book home. The
reading of this book will instil a taste. They will tell their friends
of it. It will be the subject of many a chat. If it is cheap, not a
few of the neighbors will wish to purchase it. Their criticism, always
racy and generally correct, will, as Birrell has pointed out in one
of his essays, be its sure pass to success. After a year’s friendly
intercourse the library will become a necessity, and they will gladly
pay a fee for their week’s delight. The author that has won their
hearts will be on their lips, his new books, on account of old ties,
will be eagerly purchased and loudly proclaimed.
Families that are shy and backward as church-members, might be visited
and literature left. This I hold is priestly work. If they come not to
Christ, let us, as the teachers of old, bring Christ to them. It will
be read. After your footsteps can be no longer heard curiosity will
come to your assistance. The little maid will pick it up, the parents
will read. I have again and again left those charming temperance
manifestoes of Father Mahony in homes of squalor and misery, the
outcome of weekly drunks. These stray leaves, I am happy to write, in
many cases marked the beginning of better things.
To counteract the serials is, to use an expression, a horse of another
color. Our weeklies are, as a general rule, dull. The poor take a
squint at some of the dailies. This squint gives them the gist of their
world. They do not care, as they will tell you, “to be reading the same
thing over twice.” Our weeklies are too often a rehash of the dailies.
Another remark that I often heard among them is, “that our weeklies
have too much Irish news.” They are not wanting in patriotism to the
home of many of their fathers, yet what interest could they be supposed
to take in the long-winded personal rivalries of Irish statesmen,
or the rank rant of the one hundred orators that strut that unhappy
isle. A bit of McCarthy, or Sexton, will be welcomed, but they rightly
draw the line at page after page of rhodomontade. If, instead of this
stuff, living articles were written, short stories, poems, biographies
of eminent Catholics, their Church and her great mission made known,
then would the poor read, and a powerful weapon against the serials
be placed in our hands. There are some of our weeklies that cannot be
classed under this criticism. They are few.
The Ave Maria, founded and conducted by one who is thoroughly capable,
could be easily made a great favorite with the poor. Its contents
are varied and replete with good things. I have used it with effect.
Another and later venture is the Young Catholic, by the Paulists, which
will fill a want. Its editor is full of sane ideas. Boys’ stories,
full of adventure, spirited pictures, will win it a way to all young
hearts. These papers may never reach the poor, if folding our arms we
stand idly by, expecting the masses by intuition to know their value.
Could not parish libraries have cheap editions for free distribution
among the poorer denizens? To defray expenses, a collection might be
taken up twice a year. No good Catholic will begrudge a few cents,
when he knows that it will go to brighten the hard life of his less
fortune-favored brother. The critic who does nothing in life but sneer
may call this Utopian. It is the old cuckoo call, known to every man
that tries to help his fellows. Newman, Barry, Lilly, Brownson, Hecker,
Ireland, Spalding, all the glittering names on our rosary have heard
it, and went their way, knowing full well that if the finger of God
traces their path, human obstacles are of little weight. The plan,
however, is eminently practical. In one of the poorest parishes in the
diocese of Ogdensburgh, it has been tried and with abundant success. I
remember well last summer with what pleasure I heard a mountain urchin
ask his pastor, “Father, can I have the _Pilot_?” This urchin had made
the acquaintance of James Jeffrey Roche and Katherine E. Conway. He was
in good company. Infidelity is going to our poor. Her weapon is the
printing press. The pulpit is well, but its arm is too short.
Shall we stand idly by and lose our own, or shall we buckle on the
armor of intelligent methods as mirrored in this paper, thereby not
only delivering our own from its coarseness and petrifaction, but
carrying the kindly light to those who know us not? Let us remember
in these days, when socialism claims the poor, that our Church is not
alone for the cultured, it is pre-eminently her duty to lead and guide
the masses. This, to a great extent, must be done by the newspaper and
book-stall.
Our Church must man the printing press with the same zeal which
animated the Jesuit scholars, explorers and civilizers of three
hundred years ago; “then will our enemies be as much surprised as
disheartened.”