The songs are of no literary value, sometimes comic, sometimes sentimental, more often with an ambiguity that is more suggestive than downright obscenity. Of the so-called comic, “McGinty” was a great hit, while “After the Ball” was its equal in the sentimental line. It is a strange sight to see pale, flaccid, worn-out Juliet thrum the indifferent piano, while near her in a dramatic posture, learned from some melo-dramatic actor, stands twisted Romeo, singing some sentimental song, balancing his voice to the poor performer, and indifferent piano. To hear such stuff—I speak from auricular demonstration—is no small affliction. After songs come dances, weary night flies quickly away. Work comes with the morrow. Sleepy and tired they buckle on their armor and go out uncomplainingly to tear and wear the sickly body. Thus generation after generation passes to the tread-mill and beyond. It is not to be expected that the literature of such people would be of a high grade. To say that they have no time to read were a fallacy, inasmuch as they do read. Here the question arises, what do they read? I answer that they possess a literature of their own, both in weekly journals and published volumes. They support, strange as it may seem, a school of novelists for their delectation. These journals are a medley of blood-and-thunder stories, far-fetched jokes, sporting news, etiquette as she is above stairs, marriage hints, palmistry, dress making, now and then a page of original topical music hemmed with fake advertising. The point to be noted in these journals, a shrewd business one, they are never beyond the reader’s intelligence. Their novels must be simple and amusing. That is, their author must know how to spin a story. He must amuse. Each weekly instalment must have its comic as well as tragic denouement. The hero must be a villain of the most approved type, neither wanting in courage nor in cunning. The heroine must be on the side of the angelic, mesmerized by the prowess of her hero. A vast quantity of supers are constantly on hand, in case of emergency. Murders, suicides, broken hearts and lesser afflictions are of frequent occurrence. The hero may perish at any moment, provided a more reckless devil takes his place. Half a dozen heroines may come to grief in one serial. An author must be lavish. Provided he is, style is not reckoned, and bad grammar but adds a taking flavor. Woe be to the editor who would inflict on his readers a novel of the school of Henry James or Paul Bourget. The masses hold that the primary condition of fiction is to amuse. They are right. These journals are carried in ladies’ satchels, they stick out of young men’s pockets. On ferry-boats, in street cars, in their stuffy rooms, in the few minutes snatched from the dinner hour they are eagerly read. They may be crumpled and thrust into the pocket at any moment. No handwashing is necessary to handle them. Their cost is light, five cents a week.