Poor Tessa! she had inherited from her ancestry that love of romance and adventure which, in their own sunny land, makes the Italians rival the Orientals in their love of hearing and telling stories. The more thrilling these stories are, the fuller of passion and crime, the better they seem to suit the tastes of these fervid and excitable natures. And she was alone; there was no one to counsel her, no one to love her, no one even to talk to in the long evenings she must of necessity spend in her bare room at the factory boarding-house, hot and stifling in summer, cold and bare in winter. She had been taught to read at the poor-house school and a stray dime novel happening to fall in her way, her imagination, waiting for something on which to feed itself, seized upon the unhealthful food, and gratified taste quickly ripened into insatiable appetite. The girl read everything she could lay hold of, and there is always plenty of such literature close at hand and ready to be devoured. Novels at five cents apiece are sold by the million at country stores, railway-depots, and news-stations. Ephemeral in their nature, every one who owns them is ready to lend, give, or throw them away, and when books fail there are always quantities of "story-papers," full of the wildest, most improbable, and often vicious tales.
Tessa bought when she had any spare pennies, borrowed and begged when she had not; read by daylight, and twilight, and lamplight, sitting up as long as the miserable boarding-house lamps would hold out, and became so immersed in her world of romance as to become almost oblivious to outward things.
To do the little girl justice, she was too innocent to understand half the wickedness which in this way was brought before her notice, but none the less was she being gradually demoralized by this evil habit. Her appetite failed, she scarcely took any exercise, she became nervous and excitable to a degree, her work was neglected, and, worse still, she was becoming familiarized with ideas, suggestions, and thoughts that should never come within the comprehension of pure-minded girls. As to her work, she was fast losing all interest in, indeed all capacity for, that, and it was whispered among her superiors that but for her utterly friendless condition it would be expedient to supply her place in the mill with some more profitable work-woman.
"Miss Eunice," said Katie, at the next Wednesday afternoon meeting, "is it wicked to read novels?"
"What a wholesale question," said Miss Eunice. "It is not wicked exactly to do a great many things which it would be better on the whole to let alone—tipping one's chair up on two legs, for instance."
Katie blushed, righted her chair, and said: "I mean wrong; is it wrong to read novels?"
"Not all novels, certainly; that is, not all fiction. The best writers of our day throw their thoughts into that form, and our knowledge of history, philosophy, science, and character comes largely from this source. Our Saviour sanctified fiction by giving his highest and deepest lessons to his disciples in parables. If you mean that kind of novels, read in moderation, I should decidedly say no."
"She means dime novels," said one of the girls.
"Oh, 'Headless Horsemen' and 'Midnight Mysteries,' fascinating maidens carried off by desperate ruffians. I am thankful to say that I have no personal acquaintance with that sort of thing; but, girls, let me ask you a few questions. May I?"
"First, let all who read, or ever have read, what are called 'sensation stories' raise their hands."