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On the Trail of The Immigrant

<h2>XVII THE ITALIAN AT HOME</h2> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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