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To the Editor of The Idler.

Dear Sir: I observe by the daily press that the English government has just issued a list in full of such authors as have been selected for the receipt of a pension. In this list I find the names of a number of widows and orphans of authors as well as the names of living authors, and this is no doubt as it should be. I have heard certain hypercritical persons object to the late project of the “Dickens stamp” upon the ground that no man is entitled to anything which he has not earned and that literary heirs are entitled to no more consideration than monetary heirs. Now, personally, I can not understand what is so objectionable about the inheritance of money. It seems to me that a man’s heirs are quite as much entitled to receive the benefits of his fortune or the fruits of his industry after his death as they are during his life; and no one has yet gone so far as to say that a man may not, with perfect propriety, bestow upon his heirs and relatives such pecuniary gifts and benefits as he may see fit during his lifetime. It seems to me that the heirs of an author inherit as great an interest in his work as the heirs of a banker or broker. But, however this may be, there is one feature about this pensioning of authors which convinces me that the British government has gone about the matter in a very wrong fashion.

I find in looking over the list that pensions have been granted because of writings upon ornithology, Elizabethan literature, poetry, socialism, philosophy and so on. While I must confess that I am unfamiliar with the majority of the names which appear upon the list, I assume from the manner in which they have been selected that the British government considers their work to have been of really great value, although not popular. The British government, in fact, appears to be offering encouragement, in the shape of pensions, to such writers as can not hope to please the general public with their work. The government is supplying a pension in lieu of popular appreciation.

Now, this is all very well if the government is merely going into the business of being philanthropic and is willing to extend its system of pensions to include worthy shoemakers who have been unable to secure a sufficient custom to keep them in food and clothing because of the inroads made upon the cobbler’s trade by the manufacturers of machine-made shoes; lawyers who are learned in the law, but who have been unable to secure the business of the great corporations; doctors who are efficient, but who chance to live in unusually healthy neighborhoods; ministers of the Gospel who are unfortunately assigned to meager or irreligious parishes; music teachers who are excellent instructors, but who find formidable foes to business in the automatic piano and the phonograph. If the British government is bent upon making up for public indifference to such authors as are willing to benefit mankind, but who can not make mankind take note of their efforts in that direction, then, I say, the British government shows a kindly and courteous disposition, but it should not stop with authors; it should carry on the good work in every walk of life.

But if, as I suspect to be the case, the British government is establishing this system of pensions in the hope that the system will result in more and better books, then I must say I think the system is more likely to fail than to succeed.

One has but to glance back at the history of literature to be convinced that poverty has never been an effective check upon literary genius. Poets have starved and philosophers have gone about clad in shabby raiment rather than forsake their chosen work. Herbert Spencer did not go clad in rags, to be sure, but where mediocre writers were reaping fortunes from their literary labors, he was expending fortunes in the effort to bring his philosophy to the attention of the world. Doctor Johnson never wrote so prolifically or so well as when he was starving in a Grub Street garret.

An empty stomach does not mean an empty head where authors are concerned. The fact of the matter is, it is easier for men to write great poetry and to think deeply when they are poor than when they are well-to-do. A wealthy and famous man has to suffer innumerable distractions from the work he has in hand; his time and attention are not his own to command. At every turn he is harassed by the responsibilities of his position. In obscurity and poverty, on the other hand, a man is not only brought more closely in touch with life, but he is absolute master of his own time and effort. Providing he be not married, and so responsible for others, the obscure and poor author is absolutely his own master. Whether he drop his greater work for the sake of earning a meal is a matter which is entirely optional. He does not have to eat if he does not care to do so. The rich and successful author, on the contrary, is expected to observe certain social duties and to return courtesy for praise and patronage. If he treats his public cavalierly and refuses to admit himself bound by the amenities of ordinary life, he is in grave danger of losing both his popularity and his eminence.

“O Poverty,” wrote Jean Jacques Rousseau, “thou art a severe teacher. But at thy noble school I have received more precious lessons, I have learned more great truths than I shall ever find in the spheres of wealth.”

Had Louis the Little actually taken up François Villon from his squalor and wretchedness, his stews and taverns, his thieves and slatterns, and made him the Grand Marshal of France, as he is made to do in Justin Huntley McCarthy’s romance, If I Were King, he would have spoiled a good poet to make a poor courtier. When poor and writing for posterity, the author is at his best; when rich and writing for more money, he is usually so anxious to make hay while the sun shines that his work suffers in proportion to his output. No, poverty has never spoiled a good poet—even the youthful Chatterton might have lost his magic with the disillusionment which follows on the heels of affluence.

And since the really great authors can not be kept from writing in any case, it would seem to me that a much better scheme would be to pension those who were better idle. Let the British government pension, not the good authors, but the bad. Let the penny-a-liner be retired in comfort where he will never need to write another poem, novel, play or philosophic treatise. Since the inspiration which moves him to labor is the desire for money, when he has the money he will no longer have any temptation to write. But for the great authors, who will write whether or no, let them be kept on their mettle, stung to action by “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” inspired by their faith in their work and close to the hearts of humanity, so that they may continue to pour out the riches of literature, philosophy and science, unimpeded by the obligations and worries attendant upon the possession of a bank account!

I am, Sir,

A Lover of Literature.