Down at Caxton's 14

Down at Caxton's 14

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