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

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.”

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