Magyar presents. Neither church, priest, nor preacher holds authority
over him very long after he reaches these shores. He rebels against,
loses interest in his church, and finally ceases to support it; neglect
not seldom ends in hate, and a rude atheism is a common disease among
these people. Besides this, it is not easy to find enough and suitable
priests and preachers for these foreigners, as slight differences in
language call for different pastors, and in Cleveland alone the Church
could use advantageously men of twenty nationalities of whose existence
the average man has scarcely any idea. The imported pastor is almost
always in discord with his congregation, which is generally in accord
with the freer American spirit and cannot be treated as he treated his
parish in Hungary or Poland. Many, perhaps most, of the pastors who are
educated abroad have no sympathy with the democratic spirit of our
country, and they frequently complain of its effect upon their
authority. I met one such priest on his way back to Europe. He was
leaving his work because, as he said, “I could find nobody in my parish
to black my boots, for everybody considered himself as good as I am. In
the old country my people would stop on the street and kiss my hand, but
here the children say, ‘Hello, Father,’ and go on their way.” The
ministers trained in America are few, and these are yet young and
inexperienced.
The English Protestant churches are not seriously concerned about this
growing problem, the solution of which does not consist only in building
missions and paying money into the treasury, but also in presenting to
these foreigners a living, acting, and blessing Christ, who, when
uplifted, draws all men unto Him.
It is good to be able to say of people who come to a strange country, as
of the Hungarian, that they maintain their integrity. He is, as a rule,
honest, easily imposed upon, somewhat quarrelsome, addicted to drink,
not so industrious as the Slav but much more intelligent, comprehending
more easily and assimilating more quickly. He is not a problem but a
lesson. Crossing the ocean in December on the Red Star Line steamer
_Vaterland_, I found among the mixture of steerage passengers over two
hundred Magyars, or, as we more exactly call them, Hungarians. I was
eager to know what they were carrying home to their native country after
years of living with us, and I found that many of them seemed completely
untouched by the American life. Their language, spoken by but a few
people in Europe, is almost unknown in America, and the man without a
language is almost always “the man without a country.” If anything,
these poor creatures seemed worse than when they came, for many of them
had failed and were broken in spirit. Some whose tongues had become
loosened were aware of the larger life, and were full of the praises of
America. They were going back to look again upon the village in which
they were born, in which they made whistles from the hanging willows by
the creek, where they chased the pigs into the mud-puddles, where they
lived their small and simple life, and to which they were now returning
as travelled men. They had crossed the ocean, seen miles of earth, had
struggled with wind and weather, felt freedom’s breezes blow, and had
grown mightily. Brain, heart, and soul had developed, or perhaps only
changed, but even change is experience, if not always life and growth.
It was good to talk to these men who had “arrived,” who saw things as we
see them and felt them as we feel them, and who carried American flags
in their pockets to show to their friends and who gloried in their
American citizenship. “I love the old country,” said one of them, “but I
love America more. Stay in Hungary? Oh, no! I do not even want to die
there, but if I do, I want them to wrap me in this shroud,” and he
pulled out of his pocket the Stars and Stripes.
XVII
THE ITALIAN AT HOME
Sombre as is the Slavic world, from which both Jew and Slav emigrate, so
bright and joyous is all Italy the home of most of the Latins who come
to us.
Nowhere in Europe does the sky seem so blue, the stars so brilliant in
their setting, or the colour of earth and sea so entrancing. Approach it
as you will it fills you and thrills you with pleasure unspeakable, and
to eyes accustomed to the sober plains of Russia and the dull
colourlessness of her villages, it seems as unreal as a dream or the
stage setting of grand opera.
Venice, Genoa, Naples, Milan, Florence, Rome; these names conjure more
in one’s vision than the pen can record. But one could mention a hundred
little spots to us nameless, towns with their own beauty, with their own
art treasures and their own large influences upon the history of
mankind. All Italy has mountains and plains, the North and the South,
vast natural contrasts; yet there is everywhere the one inexplicable
charm which makes the name of the country synonymous with beauty and
art.
Yet while Italy is one the Italian is not. A great gulf still divides
the people of different provinces and districts, and old political
divisions still survive, leaving their marks upon the speech, and the
character of the individual. All the older and newer invasions have left
their traces, and wherever an alien army has come, it has plowed its way
with the sword into the life of these impressionable people.
Where the Slav has touched the Italian, you see his heavy finger marks
in a rougher exterior, a slower gait, a harsher speech, more industry
and less art. Where the Austro-Germans have enthralled and governed him
you will find him more governable, more sedate, more a statesman and
less a revolutionist, “a captain of industry” rather than a leader of
brigands, more a business man and less a dreamer. Where the French
crossed the mountains they made a gateway for their tastes and habits,
which blended quickly and easily into the Italian character, for the
Italians were never very unlike the French who were their friends and
enemies in turn, and often both at the same time. Where the Arabians and
the Greek touched the South with thought and thoughtfulness, with
culture and vices, with rest and restlessness, these contrasts are
accentuated in the Italian, who, although small in stature, is great in
passions and desires.
Yet frugality and industry have been forced upon him by the climate and
by economic conditions. The rest of Europe long ago became conscious of
this fact. When railroads just began to be built the Italian blasted his
way through the mountains, and I am sure there is not a tunnel which he
did not help to dig, and perhaps not a great stone bridge whose
foundations he did not lay. Until comparatively recently the Italian
seemed indispensable in all such undertakings and in a greater portion
of Europe his camp could be seen wherever the railroad was making a new
path for civilization.
Never given to alcoholic excess like the Slav, more inventive than his
duller competitor, easily adjusted to any task or condition; he would
lie uncomplainingly in a ditch were the weather hot or cold, wet or dry,
and for a comparatively small wage do a day’s full work, which the
natives of these countries seemed unable to do.
The pioneer of Italian migrations was his lazier brother, who, with a
trained monkey and a hand-organ out of tune, made his way from place to
place; he also came first across the Atlantic and caused many of us to
believe that he was the typical Italian.
The tourist who is besieged by the beggars in Naples, and who sees the
lazy Lazzaroni stretched out upon the ground with his face turned
towards the baking sun, sees the exceptional Italian, although this
exception seems to be numerous.
As a rule the Italian asks for but little in life. He lives on olives
and macaroni, cornmeal mush or Polenta, as it is called, and is content.
He rarely drinks to excess, his wine being often watered to such a
degree that it can no more be called an alcoholic beverage. His home
need not be either beautiful or commodious when all out of doors is his,
when God has set ornaments into the heavens and calls out of the earth
such beauties as no mortal can reproduce. The very rags which cover his
body become picturesque as the sunlight plays upon them with its
wonderful colouring.
Satisfied as is the Italian at home by his condition, he is equally
unsatisfied with any restraint by authority; lawlessness has cut so deep
into his life, that it may be said to be a natural characteristic. The
root of it lies in the fact that for centuries the lawmakers were aliens
and conquerors, the laws being made for the strong and not for the weak;
to oppress and not to protect.
Brigandage and heroism often became synonymous, while murder and theft
were easily excused upon the grounds of expediency. Much of this spirit
has remained in all classes of society, especially in the south, and the
population is so used to it, that the criminal is more often pitied than
condemned, while the people would rather put a halo around the heads of
assassins and murderers, than a rope about their necks. Modern
psychology, under the leadership of the Italian physician Lombroso, has
encouraged this leniency towards criminals and the Italian when he can
find no other excuse for a crime lays it to hereditary influences, which
make the criminal still more an unfortunate man. Rarely does he call a
prison by its right name; it is the “place for unfortunates.” The
criminal is regarded as an unfortunate one, and heinous indeed must be
the crime which is looked upon as more than a misfortune.
The various secret societies in Italy which once had political bearing,
have become largely a menace to organized society, and a school for the
worst kind of crimes. The consequence is that many of the criminals who
come to our shores are Italians who are trying to escape punishment or
who are entangled in the meshes of the Maffia or Camorra, and the
officials are very glad to have their room rather than their company.
Evidences are not lacking that their way out is made easy, even if it
cannot be proved that the government aids them to come.
It does not follow that the Italian is dishonest; he compares well with
the average European who comes to us, but in his ethics he is decidedly
mixed, and his poetical temper does not always help him to tell the
exact truth. His exceeding great politeness prevents him from saying no
when he means it, and often when one feels himself aggrieved by what
seems a deception, it is only an overplus of good manners. He is
extremely amorous in his wooing, jealous when he has attained his end,
and fights for his love to the death. He is generous, if not chivalrous
to his wife, and with proper training in America he may become a docile
husband. Even now he is one of the few European fathers who may push a
baby carriage through the streets without losing caste by it. Travelling
through Italy I have come upon many a husband who took complete charge
of the baby during the journey, while his wife looked out of the window
and enjoyed the leisure. The ties which bind him to his wife are rather
easily broken, due to the fact that many marriages are contracted early,
so that the wife passes from youth to age quickly, and great family
cares are apt to make him feel that he would better move on.
Socialism tinged by anarchy has deeply eaten into the life of the common
people and is regarded by most Italians as an important factor in the
control of the government, in which corruption and graft are nearly as
common as in Russia. While better conditions are in sight they have not
yet come, and taxation is as heavy as it is unjustly raised and
distributed.
Eighty-four per cent of all the taxes raised are expended upon the
national debt, the administration and defense; while all the rest of the
national needs must be met by only seventeen per cent. But 2.79 per
cent. of that sum is used for education, the consequence being that
fifty per cent. of the population of Italy are illiterate, that the
public schools, both government and church schools, are poor, and that
the high schools and universities are suffering from the lack of proper
equipment and are not able to keep pace with modern advancement in
education. Compulsory education is a law never enforced, and yet
suffrage depends upon the ability to read and write; therefore over
6,000,000 voters are robbed of their right to vote. The king is loved
for the simplicity of his life, the honesty of his purposes, and for his
adaptability to modern thought and conditions. But this cannot be said
of most of his ministers and state officials. The accepted name for an
official used to be and in a measure still is “Goberno Ladro,” which
means government thief.
The Italian is a good business man and a good organizer, having a talent
for the dollar which to-day makes him a new business force in Europe,
and one to be reckoned with; especially if he improves his business
morals, which are very poor.
In spite of the fact that Italy is the centre of the most dogmatic
Christian Church, the Italian is tolerant towards those of other faith
or race, even while being superstitious to a degree. He loves the pomp
and splendour of the Church but has not been deeply touched by her
ethical features, and is in a measure, as much pagan as when his
forefathers worshipped local deities; although now he calls them patron
saints.
One might justly accuse the Catholic clergy of not having risen to their
responsibility, of having increased the enmity rather than the love of a
large portion of the population, of having played politics on the off
side and of having had no social vision. But a charge like this though
true, has back of it certain facts which would, perchance, show us the
Roman priests in a better light. There are priests and priests, bishops
and bishops, even as there are popes and popes. If the clergy of Italy
was made after the pattern of the present Pope, if it had his spirit,
his devotion and his piety, the Italian might still become a Christian
who would prove the power of his faith and who would be thoroughly
genuine and tolerant; not a dogmatist, a thorough optimist, a man of
great faith, and consequently not a good politician.
We know enough of Pope Pius X to wish for Italy and for America also
that he might become the model for all Roman Catholics; then indeed the
immigrant would be to us no problem but a blessing. Yet one cannot judge
the hierarchy by the Pope, and there are in Italy not a few discerning
men who distrust the Church the more, in the measure in which it has a
good Pope behind whom to hide its evil designs.
Yet who that has looked into the face of Pope Pius X will ever forget
its strong, yet sweet manliness? He must indeed have no religious
sensibilities who does not realize when in his presence that he is face
to face with a man of God. Shortly after his elevation to his office he
stood before a congregation of some ten thousand people who filled the
court of St. Damassia. His face shone from the pleasure of loving those
who stood before him, and they could not help loving him. He began to
speak, and gradually a deep-felt silence crept over the vast assemblage.
“I am so glad,” he said, “my dearly beloved friends, to see so many of
you here, and I thank you all from the depths of my heart. They tell me
that society is corrupt, full of weakness and disease, a sickly dying
body, but I,” he said, and his voice was filled by the strength of his
faith, “do not believe it.” He then told the simple story of the child
which Jesus raised from the dead; he told it as simply as it was
written, as a disciple of Jesus who was an eye-witness might have told
it to the humble folk of Judea. He told how Jesus with His companions
came, how He looked upon the girl, and as He laid His hands upon her
head said, “The child is not dead; it is not true.”
With his face bathed in a flame of holy passion the great pope and
preacher said to the breathless multitude: “Non e vero”--it is not
true; “Non lo credo”--I do not believe it; “and if we all cling to one
another I believe that humanity still has vitality, and that it will
come to full life and health, as long ago did the little child in
Palestine.”
As I look upon the Italian at home with his many social diseases which
have so deeply eaten into his life that one might judge him incurable--I
nevertheless say: “Non e vero, Non lo credo.” It is not true, I do not
believe it. True, my faith in his healing does not rest with the Pope,
in spite of his native piety and his sterling character. The Italian is
sick and sore because the Church which has so long been his physician,
acknowledges no error, and even its humble Pope will not persuade it
that it must radically change its treatment; this not only for the sake
of Italy but for the sake of America also. The most dangerous element
which can come to us from any country, is that which comes smarting
under real or fancied wrongs, committed by those who should have been
its helpers and healers. Such an element Italy furnishes in a remarkably
great degree, and I have no hesitation in saying that it is our most
dangerous element.
XVIII
THE ITALIAN IN AMERICA
It is hard to determine how long it is since the first Savoyard came to
our country with his trained bears, making them dance to the squeaky
notes of his reed instrument, as he wandered from town to town. He and
the man with the monkey and organ were of the same adventurous stock,
and they were the vanguard of a vast army of men who were to come; first
with a push-cart, later with shovel and pickax. Not to destroy, but to
build up and to help in the great conquest of nature’s resources, so
abundantly bestowed upon this continent.
While the average Italian immigrant is not regarded by any of us as a
public benefactor, it is a question just how far we could have stretched
our railways and ditches without him; for he now furnishes the largest
percentage of the kind of labour which we call unskilled, and he is
found wherever a shovel of earth needs to be turned, or a bed of rock is
to be blasted. Hundreds of thousands come each year and each one of them
fits into the work awaiting him, moving on to a new task when the old
one is finished. The kind of work which they do calls for unattached,
migrating labour, and eighty per cent. of those who come have no
marriage ties to hinder their movements. When the winter comes and out
of door work grows slack, or when the labour market is depressed, these
unattached forces return to Italy and bask in its sunshine until
conditions for labour on this side of the sea grow brighter. Their
quarters, which are as near as possible to their work, are easily
recognized; not because they are more slovenly than their neighbours,
but because there is such a “helter skelter, I don’t care” sort of
atmosphere about their squalor. This comes from the fact that they
regard their quarters as purely temporary, and treat them as one might a
camping-ground, which to-morrow is to be abandoned for a better site.
Like all foreigners, they prefer to be among their own; not so much from
a feeling of clannishness, although that is not absent; but because
among their own, they are safe from that ridicule which borders on
cruelty, and with which the average American treats nearly every
stranger not of his complexion or speech.
In passing through Connecticut, where nearly each large town has its
Italian colony, I found one lonely Italian asking the conductor whether
this was the train for New York. “Which way want you go?” (Usually the
American thinks that the foreigner can understand poor English.) All
the Italian knew, he repeated: “New York--New York.” The conductor left
the puzzled man standing on the platform and the train moved on. I
remained with the Italian and saw him three times treated similarly, if
not worse, and I concluded that it is not very safe for the Italian to
distribute himself too thinly over this continent.
The Italian usually moves into quarters formerly occupied by the Irish
or Jews, whose demands have risen with their better earnings, and who
have left the congested districts for the uptown or the suburbs. At
present it is no doubt true that the Italian is satisfied by these
quarters, and that what nobody wants, he is ready to take. So it is that
he comes to the edges of the great Ghetto in New York, to Bleecker
Street and beyond, and that his trail leads almost into the heart of it.
Jewish and Italian push-cart peddlers stand side by side, the Italian
barber shop seeks Semitic customers, the smells from the “Genoese
Restaurant” blend with those from the “Kosher Kitchen,” and the air is
disturbed by the perfumes of garlic and paprika, a combination not half
so bad as it smells.
In Chicago, “Little Italy” hovered around a large district condemned to
the sheltering of vice, and when good business sense dictated that it be
moved to some less conspicuous portion of the town, it was immediately
invaded by Italians. Scarcely a day had passed, yet the change made was
as complete as it was revolutionary. Large plate windows were broken and
pillows were stuck into the aperture to keep out the lake breeze; the
broad stairways which had led to destruction were slippery now, but not
so dangerous as before; the large parlours were divided and subdivided,
while the gay paper was torn from the walls; it looked as though
conquerors had come who were bent upon destruction. A happy change was
manifest in the streets, for it was full of children, and the innocent
face of a child had not been seen in those streets for years.
Housing conditions among the Italians are as bad as can be imagined and
the most crowded quarters in our cities are those inhabited by them.
Four hundred and ninety-two families in one block is the record, and it
is held by New York, on Prince Street, between Mott and Elizabeth
Streets; while Philadelphia can boast of having the most unwholesome
tenements, where air is a luxury and daylight unknown. In that city
thirty families numbering 123 persons, were living in thirty-four rooms.
Of course the landlord who builds these shacks and the community which
tolerates them, are equally to blame. Both commit a crime against
society, but a good share of the blame must fall upon the Italian
himself for being satisfied with such surroundings. He is of course
anxious to save money, and a decent dwelling in our large cities is a
luxury; so he who at home used the heavens for the roof of his tenement,
and the long street for his parlour, is naturally content with but a
small shelter for the night.
Considering the conditions under which the Italians live, their quarters
are not nearly so bad as one might expect, and when a period of
prosperity has come upon the community, when it can look back upon a
year or two of consecutive work, they show in common with other foreign
quarters, decided improvement.
Rather characteristic is the tenement district of Hartford, Conn., which
has gone through all the stages of such districts in other cities, is no
better than they, and in many respects worse. There are buildings
occupied which would be condemned elsewhere as unfit for human
habitation. There are whole blocks which look damp, dingy and dirty;
ancient structures, with filth oozing from every pore.
Jews and Italians are the chief inhabitants of this district, although
one comes across a stranded American family here and there, the dregs of
New England, the most hopeless people in this new city of ancient
tenements. The two nationalities live rather close together, and it is a
mixture of Russian and Italian dirt, the Italian article being much the
cleaner.
Walk through the streets with me and you will readily forget that you
are in America. Here Pietro, the shoemaker, on his three-legged stool,
mends boots out on the streets; while Lorenzo shaves his customer upon
the pavement in front of his shop. Gossiping groups of swarthy
neighbours sit together upon the threshhold of their homes, and Bianca,
Lorenzo’s wife, is complaining in a loud voice that Pietro, the
shoemaker, has called her a hussy. “And he a low-down Sicilian, a good
for nothing, has called me, the barber’s wife, a hussy.” She is rousing
the ire of her neighbours, and woe to Pietro, for Lorenzo’s wife has a
temper.
They do look so unchanged as yet, nearly all of them--so genuinely
homely, as if they had landed but yesterday; and they have not yet gone
through the transforming process, except as Francesco, the chief of the
hurdy-gurdy grinders, has changed one or two tunes of his _repertoire_;
for he appeases the New England conscience by playing “Nearer, My God to
Thee,” with variations, “Rock of Ages,” closely followed by “Tammany,”
and airs from Cavaliero Rusticana.