On the Trail of the Immigrant

by Edward Alfred Steiner

Not so pleasant is the problem that, in common with all foreigners, the 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.