“Indeed,” I said, feeling awkward, for I saw that I ought to be impressed.
“Ah!” he said, laughing outright. “You’re not impressed in the least, really. But I’ll ask you to consider what advertisements mean. First, they are the life-essence of every newspaper, every periodical, and every book.”
“Every book?”
“Practically, yes. Most books contain some latent support of a fashion in clothes or food or drink, or of some pleasant spot or phase of benevolence or vice, all of which form the interest of one or other of the sections of society, which sections require publicity at all costs for their respective interests.”
I was about to probe searchingly into so optimistic a view of modern authorship, but he stalled me off by proceeding rapidly with his discourse.
“Apart, however, from the less obvious modes of advertising, you’ll agree that this is the age of all ages for the man who can write puffs. ‘Good wine needs no bush’ has become a trade paradox, ‘Judge by appearances,’ a commercial platitude. The man who is ambitious and industrious turns his trick of writing into purely literary channels, and becomes a novelist. The man who is not ambitious and not industrious, and who does not relish the prospect of becoming a loafer in Strand wine-shops, writes advertisements. The gold-bearing area is always growing. It’s a Tom Tiddler’s ground. It is simply a question of picking up the gold and silver. The industrious man picks up as much as he wants. Personally, I am easily content. An occasional nugget satisfies me. Here’s tonight’s nugget, for instance.”
I took the paper he handed to me. It bore the words:
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
CAUGHT IN THE ACT of drinking Skeffington’s Sloe Gin, a man will always present a happy and smiling appearance. Skeffington’s Sloe Gin adds a crowning pleasure to prosperity, and is a consolation in adversity. Of all Grocers.
“Skeffington’s,” he said, “pay me well. I’m worth money to them, and they know it. At present they are giving me a retainer to keep my work exclusively for them. The stuff they have put on the market is neither better nor worse than the average sloe gin. But my advertisements have given it a tremendous vogue. It is the only brand that grocers stock. Since I made the firm issue a weekly paper called Skeffington’s Poultry Farmer, free to all country customers, the consumption of sloe gin has been enormous among agriculturists. My idea, too, of supplying suburban buyers gratis with a small drawing-book, skeleton illustrations, and four coloured chalks, has made the drink popular with children. You must have seen the poster I designed. There’s a reduced copy behind you. The father of a family is unwrapping a bottle of Skeffington’s Sloe Gin. His little ones crowd round him, laughing and clapping their hands. The man’s wife is seen peeping roguishly in through the door. Beneath is the popular catch-phrase, “Ain’t mother going to ’ave none?”