Catholic truth
would be drunk in like honey by the people.

You point to our beautiful churches, beautiful they are indeed.
But to what purpose do we raise temples of stone if we permit the
living temple of the soul to be eaten into by the poison mildews
of evil thought. The Continent is dotted over with stately but
empty basilicas, silent and mournful monuments to a Faith and a
love long since departed.

[Side note: Questions]

Now that we begin to realise the danger and the extent of this
evil, a number of questions naturally suggest themselves.

[Side note: I]

How is it that the master carefully scrutinizes the character of
a servant before admitting her into his house, lest her influence
in his home might be for evil, and that same man allows the
author to pass in unchallenged? The author comes, not to minister
but to master; to impress his thoughts on the minds and perhaps
blast the virtue of the children.

[Side note: 2]

Since every parent is bound to provide that his children's
apartments are well supplied with healthy air, is not the
obligation far more serious to take care that the moral
atmosphere of the home does not hold the deadliest poisons in
solution?

[Side note: 3]

[Side note: Questions]

Why does not the young girl, who is so fastidious about the class
of people with whom she will associate, exercise even ordinary
discrimination in the selection of an author? This is the
companion whose influence sinks deeper and lasts longer than that
of the person with whom she sips tea or takes a walk. He whispers
into her soul under the shade of the midnight lamp. He embeds his
principles on her brain. He lives in her dreams. He becomes her
oracle to conjure by.

[Side note: 4]

Or, let us put the question this way: How many of the men and
women who flit across the pages of modern fiction would a
respectable Catholic admit into his home or introduce to his
family? He would not give them his company, but he gives them his
brains. The hem of his garment they may not touch, but the pith
of his life he places at their disposal. Make no mistake about
it. You cannot shake off the influence of your author. His
thoughts become your thoughts. He weaves himself into the woof of
your mind.

[Side note: 5]

How is it that when the proselytiser comes to your parish in
human shape you are all afire, but when he comes speaking, not by
one but a hundred tongues, silently but effectively sapping the
Fai