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.
A PURITAN IN BOHEMIA
To the Editor of The Idler.
Dear Sir: You will often hear it asserted by those who assume to speak with authority, that there is no longer any such thing as Bohemia in New York; that the Bohemians are scattered hither and thither and that their haunts are given over to seekers after sensation, sight-seers and the like. The seeming sophistication of those who speak thus is, more often than not, entirely sham, and is assumed by pert reporters for the daily press who wish, by appearing worldly, to divert attention from their patent callowness and youth.