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 Faith or virtue of your flock, no pulpit rings with denunciation?  All these questions may be answered by another most pertinent to the priest.

Have the people been taught to realise the danger confronting them?  Have their consciences been awakened?  Have we been dumb watch-dogs while they are being devoured?

[Side note:  Apologies]

The treatment of this subject would be incomplete if the stock apologies for dangerous reading were not dealt with.