Part 15
The advantage of the Administration Order over the individual collection of debts is manifest, but the imperfections in the system are equally manifest. The limit of £50, and the exorbitant Treasury fees to be paid in priority to the dividend to creditors, are of themselves sufficient to account for the failure of the system. Thus it is not surprising to find that in many of the Courts this section of the Act is a dead letter, and the Administration Order is unknown. There is, and I think rightly, a wide discretion given to Judges of the County Courts who are supposed to study the needs and wants of their particular localities, and minister to these wants in a quasi-pastoral spirit. Without the active assistance of Judges and Registrars such a system as this could not be either known to—or understood by—the insolvent poor. Many Judges probably think the system worthless, and in consequence it is not used. Thus in 1909, on two circuits, 5 and 8, Bolton and Manchester, 821 orders were made, while on five large London circuits, 40-44 inclusive, only 37 orders were made. I have myself found a considerable increase in applications for Administration Orders since I have encouraged debtors whose affairs were in a hopeless state, to make their application, and taken occasion to explain to debtors appearing on Judgment Summonses the provisions of the section enabling them to apply. How hopeless is the condition of many of the insolvent poor, and what they are reduced to by reckless credit given to them by some classes of tradesmen may be seen from some of the following cases extracted from the Administration Order Ledgers of Manchester and Salford:—
“M. No. 358.—Labourer; wife; 9 children; 18s. per week; 12 creditors; 7 judgments; debts £40. 9s. 8d. Has nearly finished paying these at 5s. in the £ by instalments of 6s. a month. The Treasury got £3. 4s. Court fees on the 7 judgments, and £4 fees on the Administration Order.
“M. No. 399.—Labourer; 22s. a week; wife; 11 children, two earning 5s. a week; 14 creditors; 10 judgments; debts £44. 16s. 1d. Was paying 10s. in the £ at 10s. per month. Paid £6; order then rescinded. Treasury taking £4. 8s. fees; creditors, £1. 12s. The Treasury had previously had £3. 17s. Court fees on the 10 judgments.
“S. No. 429.—Railway Porter; 16s. 10d. a week; wife and 1 child, aged three; 19 creditors; 13 of the creditors travelling drapers; debts, £33. 10s. Order, 10s. in the £ at 5s. 6d. a month. Before the Order was made he was, under the 9 judgments, bound to pay 39s. 6d. a month, and liable to committal if he failed. The Treasury had already had £3. 4s. 9d. Court fees on the judgments, and will get a further £3. 6s. fees on the Administration Order.
“S. No. 551.—Labourer; wife and 6 children, two earning jointly 10s. per week; wages, 18s. a week; 18 creditors, of whom 11 were travelling drapers; 16 judgments; debts, £20. 10s. 2d. Already liable to pay 35s. a week to different judgment creditors. Order made, 10s. in the £ at 4s. a month. Court fees already paid to Treasury £4. 14s. 3d. Under the Order they will have another £2. In this case the State has added more than 30 per cent. to the original indebtedness of the man in the vain endeavour to make him do what he was unable to do, _i.e._, pay his debts without the means to pay them.
“S. No. 460.—Ostler; wife; no children; 21s. a week; 25 creditors; 9 judgments; debts, £32. 7s. 6d.; 14 of the creditors travelling drapers. Order, 10s. in the £ at 6s. per month. Apart from the Order he was bound under the judgments to pay 22s. a month. Here the Treasury have already had £2. 8s. 6d. Court fees, and will get a further £3. 4s. fees on the Order.”
In the three last cases the insolvency was chiefly due to a careless wife. The porter’s wife was quite young and an easy prey for the travelling draper.
From these cases it is at least clear that if such debtors are to be left to their various creditors, a large portion of their time will be spent in evading the service of Judgment Summonses or appearing in Court, either by themselves, or more usually by wife and baby, to show cause why they should not go to gaol. Without the assistance of some form of bankruptcy and discharge their case is hopeless, and their future must be one of chronic insolvency.
One of the chief objections to the present system raised by creditors is the exorbitant fees charged by the Treasury. Parliament enacted that these fees should “not exceed” 2s. in the £ on the total amount of the debt. The Treasury interpreted this to mean that there should always be 2s. in the £, whatever composition was paid, and ordered accordingly. So, if a man’s total debts be £50, the Treasury draw £5, whether the debtor pays 20s. in the £ or 2s. in the £, and draws this in priority to creditors and whether the Order is fully carried out or not. As we have seen, the Treasury have often, before the Order is made, drawn considerable sums on judgments forming part of the Order, and creditors contend, and I think rightly, that these fees are excessive.
Some time ago I collected the views of the Judges on these fees, and forwarded them to the Treasury. Speaking generally, they were adverse to the fees, but the Treasury, although they have the power to mitigate the fees, cannot see their way to do it. I put this matter in the forefront of possible reforms, because it can be done by a stroke of the departmental pen without legislation, and if done would do much to render these orders more useful to—and therefore less unpopular with—creditors. I have often pointed out to grumbling creditors that these fees were probably not intended by Parliament to be exacted, for I have never thought it part of my duty to apologise for the rapacity of a Government department. And when I saw the figures for 1909, “Treasury income from fees on Administration Orders £12,824, money paid to creditors £45,059,” I could only concur in the view that it was little short of a scandal that such an income should be drawn by any department out of so miserable and helpless a class as the insolvent poor, especially when it is done at the expense of those to whom they owed money.
The Treasury, of course, have a departmental view perfectly sane and satisfactory after its sort. If I understand the view aright it is this:—These Orders do not pay their way according to our calculations. There is an income of nearly £13,000 a year coming to us under an Act of Parliament, and our duty is to take what is provided, asking no questions for conscience sake. If one could get beyond the department to the individuals composing it, and make them realise in the midst of their great affairs that this sum of £13,000 a year, trumpery but acceptable, at Whitehall, is a grievous tax in the cottages of the insolvent poor, some reform would perhaps be made. Indeed, I cannot but think that the departmental view of the small work of the County Court is altogether wrong in principle, and that the time is at hand when Parliament should enforce a more modern view of its duties on the department. The constant cry is that the Courts do not pay. The answer is that they ought not to be asked to do so. The toll-bar principle ought to be gradually abolished, and the Courts of the country ought to be as free to Her Majesty’s poorer subjects as the high roads. Nowhere is this more true than in the County Court, where the fees throughout are exorbitant and excessive, pressing with the greatest harshness on those who are already over-burdened with debts.
These and other matters have, however, been reported upon by commissioners and mentioned in Parliament. The only immediate reform that can be made is the reduction in Treasury fees. That can be done forthwith and without legislation if Parliament desires it, and ought to be done without delay. After that it will be time to put forward a more satisfactory scheme of small bankruptcies, open to all weekly wage-earners, whatever the amount of their debts, with an official receiver responsible to the creditors and the Court. Parliament ought at least to find time to carry out the recommendations of the Select Committee of the House of Lords in their report on the working of the Debtors’ Act, printed in 1893. The most important suggestion there made was: “That the question of costs in respect of Judgment Summonses and Orders of Commitment is one deserving serious consideration, and that it would be advisable that a Departmental Committee of the Treasury should carefully consider the matter as early as possible.” This question of costs and fees in all small proceedings is one that wants an immediate and searching investigation and reform of a not wholly departmental character.
Meanwhile faith, which will remove mountains, enables me to believe that the Departmental Committee of the Treasury are giving it a wise and most deliberate consideration. Hope also buoys me up to look forward to a time when Parliament will amend the Statutes of Limitations in regard to small debts, curtail imprisonment for debt, and enact at least as favourable laws for the insolvent poor as exist for the insolvent rich. Charity, meanwhile, compels me to grieve that so little is done to stop the reckless credit which is offered to the poorer classes, and to urge the consideration of such measures as may assist the insolvent poor, who of all our fellow citizens seem to me to demand pity and sympathy, in place of punishment, rigour, and harsh laws.
WHY BE AN AUTHOR?
“Of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”
_Ecclesiastes_ xii., 12.
The connecting of the making of books with study is an old world idea that it is difficult for a latter-day reader to understand. A modern world recognises that book-making in all its branches is a natural pursuit for those of the unemployed who honestly strive to live by their wits. But if the making of books was allowed to be a national nuisance in the days of Solomon, much more must it be so to-day, when books are fast ceasing to be saleable, and have to be given away with out-of-date or up-to-date newspapers, pounds of tea, and other doubtful merchandise.
If, therefore, the supply of authors could be mitigated, much of this long-standing trouble might be abated; and it becomes a reasonable thing for a citizen—especially one who has himself been guilty of some of the minor literary misdemeanours—to inquire why authors become authors, instead of following some useful trade, and what human motive it is that drives people to authorship. I do not pretend that I have found the answer to the question, “Why be an Author?” If I had I should have solved one of the riddles of the universe. But I can, perhaps, set forth a few suggestions upon the lines of which future scientists will be able to pursue the problem to its ultimate solution.
To make a rough attempt at the classification of the common motives of authorship is a bold thing to do. Experimentally I should set down—“in the order of going in,” to use a cricket phrase—the four following, namely:—
(1) Vanity, or conceit. (2) Greed. (3) The fun of the thing, and (4) Having a message to deliver.
And first of vanity or conceit. How easy this is to diagnose in the literary works of others; how impossible to admit, even for a moment, that it is at all a permissible suggestion about the motive of our own work. And yet if one will be honest with oneself, what is there in life that ministers to the delightful pleasure of vanity so thoroughly and satisfactorily as the sight of one’s first printed production. I remember well the first book I ever published. It was, curiously enough, a Life of Queen Elizabeth, a subject I returned to in later years. It was not a large book—but then at the time I published it I was not a large person, being only nine years old, and the physical act of writing was burdensome to me; spelling also had more difficulties about it than perhaps it has to-day. No, it was not a large volume: to be exact it contained two pages demi octavo of rather large print. It was not however, intended to be printed in book form at all. It was rather a first effort at journalism, and was written for the pages of an excellent periodical called _Little Folks_, which had offered a prize for the best life of the Maiden Queen. The prize, no doubt, was, as these things often are, carelessly adjudged to some budding author, who has probably never been heard of since. Anyhow, I did not get it, and my MS. was returned,—you send a stamped envelope if you want it returned, never forget that—mine was returned “highly commended.” That Editor has saved himself a lot of nasty abuse from literary historians of the next century by those two words, “highly commended.” He made a mistake, no doubt, about the prize; but I, who have had to give many hundred decisions in my later years—not perhaps verdicts of such moment, but concerning smaller matters, where right decision is equally advisable—know the difficulties of coming to a true result, and have long ago readily forgiven him. Doubtless the poor fellow did his best, and if he is still alive—more power to his elbow, if he has gone
Where the Rudyards cease from Kipling, And the Haggards ride no more
then—peace to his ashes.
The world was not however to lose this masterpiece. I remember showing it to my father when it came back in its stamped envelope, and he put it in his pocket, gravely expressing a desire to read it. I am not sure that he did read it, but he had it printed—at Guildford, I believe, when he was away on circuit.
I remember him placing the parcel in my hands on his return and my delight in opening it, and my wild surprise at the discovery of the contents, and the awed silence that came over my soul when I saw the print on the pages and knew I was an author. I can hear my father’s good-natured laugh over the affair, and my mother’s insistence on my autograph on the front page “with the author’s compliments.” I spelt compliment with an “e.” It is absurd having two ways of spelling one word. Afterwards I have a dim remembrance of walking about on air for a few days, and finding it difficult to sit on chairs for any length of time, and quite impossible to learn lessons. All my spare time was taken up by reading the great work in solitary corners, and marvelling at the beauty of the language and the respectability of the spelling. When I went for a walk in Kensington Gardens I shrank from the gaze of the populace, much as a real grown-up author might do, who had lived at the Isle of Man or Stratford-on-Avon. After a time I became normal again, but the mischief was done: I had, in the seventeenth century phrase, “commenced author.”
Looking back at the matter from the cold, grey standpoint of a grandfather, there is this to be said for my first book. It is out of print. It is so rare that I doubt if an American millionaire could buy one. The last copies of it that I saw fell out of an old desk many years ago, and were made into paper boats by my children. Luckily I have plenty more materials for paper boats for the next generation when they shall need them.
I have written down this little experience because, to my mind, it is perhaps the one certain instance I can testify to, of a book being written wholly and entirely from motives of vanity or conceit. The prize did not attract me in the least; it was, I believe, a book of religious tendency. There was no greed about the matter. I did not do it for the love of the thing, for in those days I spent my spare time in carpentering and producing pantomime in a toy theatre. As for any sense of having a message to deliver that was absurd, because I copied the bulk of it out of Little Arthur’s History of England, carefully paraphrasing the language to hide from the over-curious the source of my authorities. There is no doubt that this book was written and produced solely by the author’s—and perhaps his parents’—strong sense of vanity and conceit. I can speak about the author impersonally to-day for he seems to me such an entirely different person from myself.
I have asked many living writers whether they have ever knowingly written anything purely from motives of vanity and conceit. They all answer me in a pained and haughty negative. For myself, I rather glory in it. It is good to have done something that nobody else has achieved. It is a big thing to have written at least one book that does not lie on the shelves of the British Museum, a book the original edition of which no gold can buy, a book that has given, to one reader at least, moments of more thrilling joy than any book that was ever printed.
But although we may accept the statements of living authors, that they never feel moved to authorship by vanity, yet if we look at the records of those who are gone we shall find schools of literature whose mainspring has been conceit. Of such are the French _Philosophes_ of the reign of Louis XV. of whom Carlyle writes: “They invented simply nothing: not one of man’s powers, is due to them; in all these respects the age of Louis XV. is among the most barren of recorded ages. Indeed, the whole trade of our _Philosophes_ was directly the opposite of invention: it was not to produce that they stood there, but to criticise, to quarrel with, to rend in pieces, what has been already produced;—a quite inferior trade: sometimes a useful, but on the whole a mean trade; often the fruit, and always the parent of meanness in every mind that permanently follows it.”
And indeed in all critics there must be a marrow of conceit stiffening the backbone. Else how could they—who fell out of the ranks footsore on the march to battle—come along so complacently when the fight is over, to talk to the soldiers covered with the grime and sweat of their work, and tell them how easily it might all have been done without soiling the pipeclay.
All critics however do not write merely from this motive. There are many of course writing from the far higher motive of greed. Then there are some few who do it for the rare fun of the thing—to enjoy the intense annoyance it gives to foolish, sensitive artists—these are the mud flingers and corner boys of the trade, and of course a few critics have lived who played the game and knew it and brought a message of heaven-sent sympathy to the artist. Maybe such a one exists to-day, in some corner behind the clouds, struggling to let his rays shine encouragement on honest endeavour.
But apart from the writings of critics vanity and conceit have always been strong motives of authors. They are found especially in schools of literature, where the form is preferred to the substance. Take our eighteenth century writers and read the story of their lives. Can it be denied that they were a vain crowd? Even Swift, Pope and Addison—the greatest of them—were not without it. As for the smaller fry, with their degrading squabbles and jealousies—their very faces seem to me pitted with the small-pox of conceit. And throughout this period you have one symptom;—the writer exalting the letter above the spirit,—and when you find that, it is invariably the indication of disease, and the disease is vanity.
This is not only the case in writing. It is so in nearly all pursuits. When you begin to believe in technical excellence of form as an end in itself, it is necessary to become to some extent narrow, vain and conceited or you will not achieve your end. In those arts in which form is more essential to the art than substance, vanity and conceit are more commonly found. Thus actors, singers, dancers, and schoolmasters are often not without vanity. You may notice, too, that the minor technical pursuits of life produce a certain conceit. It is occasionally observable in the semi-professional lawn-tennis amateur. In a lesser degree too by many golfers the same vice is sometimes displayed, but more often in the club-house and on the first tee than during the progress of the game. When a man is deeply bunkered style becomes a secondary consideration.
But generally speaking all writers who think literature an affair of quantities, metres, syntax and grammatical gymnastics, all men who reverence literary form rather than practical substance, are bound to write in a spirit of vanity and conceit, which is the only petrol that can push them along the weary road they have chosen. It oppresses you to-day to find this spirit in nearly all the great writers of the eighteenth century. How Oliver Goldsmith stands out amongst them as the one great writer with a human heart; how we readers of to-day love him and reverence him with an enthusiasm we cannot offer to Addison himself.
But enough of conceit and vanity, let us turn to our second motive—a far pleasanter and more everyday affair—greed. I should put Shakespeare among the first and greatest whose motive was greed. I cannot imagine anyone taking the trouble to write a play from any other motive, certainly not from a lower motive. Shakespeare’s main desire in life, if we may trust his biographers, was to become a landowner in Warwickshire—possibly a county magistrate. What an ideal chairman he would have made of a licensing bench. Would Mistress Quickly’s license have been renewed? I doubt it. Shakespeare wrote plays for the contemporary box office to make money out of them and thrive. As Mr. Sidney Lee tells us he “stood rigorously by his rights in all business relations.” There being in those days no law of copyright he borrowed all he could from common stock, added to it the wonderful flavouring of his own personality and served up the immortal dramatic soup which nourishes us to-day. After this fashion of borrowing, if Emerson be right, the Lord’s Prayer was made. The single phrases of which it is composed were, he says, all in use at the time of our Lord in the rabbinical forms. “He picked out the grains of gold.” It is the same if you think of it with Æsop’s fables, the Iliad and the Arabian Nights, which no single author produced. And so must all great work be done, for we are nothing of ourselves and if we do not take freely of those who are gone before we can do naught. But only those have the right to borrow who can embroider some new and glorious pattern on the homely stuff they appropriate. Shakespeare had no vanity and conceit; no doubt he wrote for the fun of the thing, as all writers who are worth their salt must do, possibly—though I for one doubt it—he knew of the message he was delivering to the world; but that he wrote his plays primarily for greed, the few records of his life that we possess seem to me to prove beyond reasonable doubt. Unless, of course, you are mad enough to believe Bacon wrote the plays. Then indeed the motive power of the author was greed—greed of a baser sort than Shakespeare’s—for the great Lord Chancellor never did anything that I know of, except a few trivial scientific experiments, from any other motive.