SURE TO BE HEALTHY, WEALTHY AND WISE.
———
I have much pleasure in announcing
myself as the happiest man alive. My character is, I have reason to believe, new
to the world. Novelists, Dramatists, and Entertainers of an easily-amused public
have never yet, to my knowledge, laid hands on me. Society is obscurely aware of
my existence; is frequently disposed to ask questions about me; is always
wanting to get face to face with me, and see what I am like; and has never been
fortunate enough yet to make the desired discovery. I come forward of my own
accord, actuated by motives of the most purely amiable sort, to dispel the mists
in which I have hitherto been hidden, and to gratify the public by disclosing
myself. Behold me, then, self-confessed and self-announced—the long-sought type;
the representative Individual; the interesting Man who believes in
Advertisements.
In using the word Advertisements, I mean to imply all those public announcements
(made chiefly through the medium of the newspapers) which address personal
interests, and which require an exercise of personal faith in the individual who
reads them. Advertisements which divert an unthinking public, which excite
contemptuous astonishment in superficial minds, which set flippant people asking
each other, “Who believes in this? Where are the people who can possibly be
taken in by it?” and so on, are precisely the Advertisements to which I now
allude. To my wise belief in these beneficent public offers of assistance to
humanity, I am indebted for the unruffled mental tranquillity in which my life—a
model life, as I venture to think it—is now passed. I see my fellow-creatures
around me the dupes of their own fatal incredulity; worn by cares, which never
trouble me; beset by doubts, from which I have escaped for ever—I see this
spectacle of general anxiety and general wretchedness; and I find it invariably
associated with a sarcastic suspicion, an irreverent disregard of those
advertised roads to happiness and prosperity along which I have travelled, in my
own personal case, with such undeniable and such astonishing results. My nature
has been soft from infancy. My bosom is animated by a perpetual glow of
philanthropy. I behold my species suffering, in all directions, through its own
disastrous sharpness—and I compassionately come forward, in consequence, to
persuade humanity that its business in this world is, not to make itself
miserable by fighting with troubles, but to keep itself healthy, wealthy, and
wise, by answering Advertisements.
I ask, believe me, very little. Faith and a few postage stamps—I want nothing
more to regenerate the civilised world. With these treasures in ourselves; and
with (to quote a few widely-known advertisements) “Graphiology,” “Ten Pounds
weekly realised by either Sex,” “Matrimony Made Easy,” and “The Future
Foretold,” all gently illuminating our path through life, we may amble forward
along our flowery ways, and never be jolted, never be driven back, never be
puzzled about our right road, from the beginning of the journey to the end. Take
my own case, as an instance; and hear me while I record the results of personal
experience.
I shall abstain, at the outset, from quoting any examples to establish the
connexion between advertisements and health; because I may fairly assume, from
the notoriously large sale of advertised medicines, that the sick public is well
aware of the inestimable benefit to be derived from an implicit confidence in
quacks. The means, however, of becoming, not healthy only, but wise and wealthy
as well, by dint of believing in advertisements, are far less generally known.
To this branch of the subject I may, therefore, address myself, with the
encouraging conviction that I am occupying comparatively new ground.
Allow me, to begin by laying down two first principles. No man can feel
comfortably wise, until he is on good terms with himself; and no man can,
rationally speaking, be on good terms with himself until he knows himself.
And how is he to know himself? I may be asked. Quite easily, I answer, by
accepting the means of information offered in the following terms, and in all
the newspapers, by a benefactress of mankind:
“Know Thyself! The Original Graphiologist, Miss Blank, continues her interesting
and useful delineations of character, from examination of the handwriting, in a
style peculiarly her own, and which can be but badly imitated by the ignorant
pretenders and self-styled professors who have lately laid claim to a knowledge
of this beautiful science. Persons desirous of knowing their own character, or
that of any friend, must send a specimen of writing, stating sex and age, or
supposed age, with fourteen uncut penny postage stamps, to Miss Blank, for which
will be returned a detail of the gifts, defects, talents, tastes, affections,
&c., of the writer, with other things previously unsuspected, calculated to
guide in the everyday affairs of life,” &c. &c.
This advertisement is no invention of my own. Excepting the lady’s name, it is a
true copy of an original, which does really appear in all the newspapers.
Off went my handwriting, and my fourteen uncut stamps, by the next post. Back,
in a day or two (for Graphiology takes its time), came that inestimable
revelation of my character which will keep me to the last day of my life on the
best and highest terms with myself. I incorporate my own notes with the letter,
as an unquestionable guarantee of the truth of its assertions, and a pleasing
evidence, likewise, of its effect upon my mind on a first reading:
“The handwriting of our correspondent is wanting in firmness and precision.”
(Solely in consequence of my having a bad pen.) “There is apparent insincerity
towards those who do not know you, but it is only putting a covering on your
really warm heart.” (How true!) “Large-minded, and inclined to be very
forgiving. Generous, but not very open.” (Well, if I must be one or the other,
and not both together, I would rather be generous than open—for who can blame
the closed heart when accompanied by the open hand?) “Of sterling integrity and
inflexible perseverance.” (Just so!) “You are clever in whatever you
undertake—kindly—original—vivacious—full of glee and spirit.” (Myself!—I blush
to own it, but this is myself, drawn to the life!) “You conceal your real nature
not so much from hypocrisy as prudence—yet there is nothing sordid or mean about
you.” (I should think not, indeed!) “You show least when you appear most open,
and yet you are candid and artless.” (Too true—alas, too true!) “You are
good-humoured, but it partakes more of volatile liveliness than wit.” (I do not
envy the nature of the man who thinks this a defect.) “There is a melancholy
tenderness pervades your manner” (there is, indeed!)—”when succouring any one
requiring your aid, which is at variance with your general tone. In disposition
you are refined and sensitive.”
With this brief, gratifying, and neatly-expressed sentence, the estimate of my
character ended. It has been as genuinely copied from a genuine original as the
specimen which precedes it; and it was accompanied by a pamphlet presented
gratis, on the “Management of the Human Hair.” Apparently, there had been
peculiarities in my handwriting which had betrayed to the unerring eye of the
Graphiologist, that my hair was not totally free from defects; and the pamphlet
was a delicate way of hinting at the circumstance, and at the remedial agents to
which I might look for relief. But this is a minor matter, and has nothing to do
with the great triumph of Graphiology, which consists in introducing us to
ourselves, on terms that make us inestimably precious to ourselves, for the
trifling consideration of fourteenpenn’orth of postage stamps. To a perfectly
unprejudiced—that is to say, to a wisely credulous mind—such a science as this
carries its own recommendation along with it. Comment is superfluous—except in
the form of stamps transmitted to the Graphiologist. I may continue the record
of my personal experiences.
Having started, as it were, afresh in life, with a new and improved opinion of
myself—having discovered that I am clever in whatever I undertake, kindly,
original, vivacious, full of glee and spirit, and that my few faults are so
essentially modest and becoming as to be more of the nature of second-rate
merits than of positive defects—I am naturally in that bland and wisely
contented frame of mind which peculiarly fits a man to undertake the choice of
his vocation in life, with the certainty of doing the fullest justice to
himself. At this new point in my career, I look around me once again among my
sceptical and unhappy fellow-mortals. What turbulence, what rivalry, what
heart-breaking delays, disappointments, and discomfitures do I not behold among
the disbelievers in advertisements the dupes of incredulity, who are waiting for
prizes in the lottery of professional existence! Here is a man vegetating
despondingly in a wretched curacy; here is another, pining briefless at the
unproductive Bar; here is a third, slaving away his youth at a desk, on the
chance of getting a partnership, if he lives to be a middle-aged man.
Inconceivable infatuation! Every one of these victims of prejudice and routine
sees the advertisements—as I see them. Every one might answer the following
announcement, issued by a disinterested lover of his species—as I answer it:
“Ten
Pounds Weekly.—May
be permanently realised by either sex, with each pound expended. Particulars
clearly shown that these incomes are so well secured to those investing that to
fail in realising them is impossible. Parties may commence with small
investments, and by increasing them out of their profits, can, with unerring
certainty, realise an enormous income. No partnership, risk, liability, or
embarking in business. Incontestable authorities given in proof of these
statements. Enclose a directed stamped envelope to,” &c. &c.
All this information for a penny stamp! It is offered—really offered in the
terms quoted above—in the advertising columns of half the newspapers in England;
especially in the cheap newspapers, which have plenty of poor readers, hungry
for any little addition to their scanty incomes. Would anybody believe that we
persist in recognising the clerical profession, the medical profession, the
legal profession, and that the Ten-Pounds-Weekly profession is, as yet,
unacknowledged among us!
Well, I despatch my directed envelope. The reply is returned to me in the form
of two documents, one lithographed and one printed, and both so long that they
generously give me, at the outset, a good shilling’s worth of reading for my
expenditure of a penny stamp. The commercial pivot on which the structure of my
enormous future income revolves, I find, on perusal of the documents—the real
documents, mind, not my imaginary substitutes for them—to be a “Fabric”—described
as somewhat similar in appearance to “printed velvet.” How simple and
surprising! how comprehensive and satisfactory—especially to a poor man, longing
for that little addition to his meagre income! The Fabric is certain to make
everybody’s fortune. And why? Because it is a patent Fabric, and because it can
imitate everything, at an expense of half nothing. The Fabric can copy flowers,
figures, landscapes, and historical pictures; paper-hangings, dress-pieces,
shawls, scarfs, vests, trimmings, book-covers, and “other manufactures too
numerous to detail.” The Fabric can turn out “hundreds of thousands of articles
at one operation.” By skilful manœuvring of the Fabric “ninety per cent of
material is saved.” In the multitudinous manipulations of the Fabric—and this is
a most cheering circumstance—”sixty veneers have been cut to the inch.” In the
public disposal of the Fabric—and here is the most surprising discovery of
all—the generous patentee (who answers my application) will distribute its
advantages over the four quarters of the globe, in shares—five-shilling
shares—each one of which is “probably worth several hundred pounds.” But why
talk of hundreds? Let clergymen, doctors, and barristers talk of hundreds. The
Ten-Pounds-Weekly profession takes its stand on the Fabric, and counts by
millions. We can prove this (I speak as a Fabricator) by explicit and
incontrovertible reference to facts and figures.
How much (the following illustrations and arguments are not my own: they are
derived entirely from the answer I receive to my application)—how much does it
cost at present to dress a lady, shawl a lady, and bonnet a lady; to parasol and
slipper a lady, and to make a lady quite happy after that, with a porte-monnaie,
an album, and a book-cover? Eight pounds—and dirt cheap, too. The Fabric will do
the whole thing—now that “sixty veneers have been cut to the inch,” mind, but
not before—for Two pounds. How much does it cost to carpet, rug, curtain,
chair-cover, decorate, table-cover, and paper-hang a small house? Assume ruin to
the manufacturer, and say, as a joke, Ten pounds. The Fabric, neatly cutting its
sixty veneers to the inch, will furnish the house, as it furnishes the lady, for
Two pounds. What follows? Houses of small size and ladies of all sizes employ
the Fabric. What returns pour in? Look at the population of houses and ladies,
and say Seventy Millions Sterling per annum. Add foreign houses and foreign
ladies, under the head of Exports, and say Thirty Millions per annum more. Is
this too much for the ordinary mind to embrace? It is very good. The patentee is
perfectly willing to descend the scale at a jump; to address the narrowest
comprehension; and to knock off nine-tenths. Remainder, Ten Millions. Say that
“the royalty” will be thirty per cent., and “such profit would give three
millions of pounds sterling to be divided among the shareholders.” Simple, as
the simplest sum in the Multiplication Table: simple as two and two make four.
I am aware that the obstinate incredulity of the age will inquire why the
fortunate Patentee does not keep these prodigious returns to himself. How base
is Suspicion! How easily, in this instance, is it answered and rebuked! The
Patentee refrains from keeping the returns to himself, because he doesn’t want
money. His lithographed circular informs me—really and truly does inform me, and
will inform you if you have to do with him—that he has had “a good fortune” left
him, and that he is “heir to several thousand pounds a year.” With these means
at his disposal, he might of course work his inestimable patent with his own
resources. But no!—he will let the
public in. What a man! How noble his handwriting must be, in a graphiological
point of view! What phrases are grateful enough to acknowledge his personal
kindness in issuing shares to me at “the totally-inadequate sum”—to use his own
modest words—of five shillings each? Happy, happy day, when I and the Fabric and
the Patentee were all three introduced to one another!
When a man is so fortunate as to know himself, from the height of his “volatile
liveliness” to the depth of his “melancholy tenderness”—as I know myself—when,
elevated on a multiform Fabric, he looks down from the regions of perpetual
wealth on the narrow necessities of the work-a-day world beneath him—but one
other action is left for that man to perform, if he wishes to make the sum of
his earthly felicity complete. The ladies will already have anticipated that the
action which I now refer to as final may be comprehended in one word—Marriage.
The course of all disbelievers in advertisements, where they are brought face to
face with this grand emergency, is more or less tortuous, troubled, lengthy, and
uncertain. No man of this unhappy stamp can fall in love, bill and coo, and
finally get himself married, without a considerable amount of doubt, vexation,
and disappointment occurring at one period or other in the general transaction
of his amatory affairs. Through want of faith and postage stamps, mankind have
agreed to recognise these very disagreeable drawbacks as so many inevitable
misfortunes: dozens of popular proverbs assert their necessary existence, and
nine-tenths of our successful novels are filled with the sympathetic recital of
them in successions of hysterical chapters. And yet, singular as it may appear,
the most cursory reference to the advertising columns of the newspapers is
sufficient to show the fallacy of this view, if readers would only exercise (as
I do) their faculties of implicit belief. As there are infallible secrets for
discovering character by handwriting, and making fortunes by Fabrics, so there
are other infallible secrets for falling in love with the right woman,
fascinating her in the right way, and proposing to her at the right time, which
render doubt, disappointment, or hesitation, at any period of the business, so
many absolute impossibilities. Once again, let me confute incredulous humanity,
by quoting my own happy experience.
Now, mark. I think it desirable to settle in life. Good. Do I range over my
whole acquaintance; do I frequent balls, concerts, and public promenades; do I
spend long days in wearisome country-houses, and sun myself persistently at the
watering-places of England—all for the purpose of finding a woman to marry? I am
too wise to give myself any such absurd amount of trouble. I simply start my
preliminary operations by answering the following advertisement:
“To
the Unmarried.—If
you wish to Marry, send a stamped-addressed envelope to the Advertiser, who will
put you in possession of a Secret by
means of which you can win the affections of as many of the opposite sex as your
heart may desire. This is suitable for either sex; for the old or young, rich or
poor, whether of prepossessing appearance or otherwise.—Address, Mr. Flam,
London.”
When the answer reaches me, I find Mr. Flam—although undoubtedly a benefactor to
mankind—to be scarcely so ready of access and so expansive in his nature as the
Proprietor of the Fabric. Instead of sending me the Secret, he transmits a
printed paper, informing me that he wants two shillings worth of postage stamps
first. To my mind, it seems strange that he should have omitted to mention this
in the Advertisement. But I send the stamps, nevertheless; and get the Secret
back from Mr. Flam, in the form of a printed paper. Half of this paper is
addressed to the fair sex, and is therefore, I fear, of no use to me. The other
half, however, addresses the lords of the creation; and I find the Secret summed
up at the end, for their benefit, in these few but most remarkable words:
“To
the Male Sex.—If
a woman is clean and neat in her dress, respects the Sabbath, and is dutiful
towards her parents, happy will be the man who makes her his wife.”
Most astonishing! All great discoveries are simple. Is it not amazing that
nobody should have had the smallest suspicion of the sublime truth expressed
above, until Mr. Flam suddenly hit on it? How cheap, too—how scandalously cheap
at two shillings! And this is the man whose generosity I doubted—the man who not
only bursts on me with a new revelation, but adds to it a column of advice,
every sentence of which is more than worth its tributary postage stamp. Assuming
that I have fixed on my young woman, Mr. Flam teaches me how to “circumvent”
her, in the following artful and irresistible manner:
I must see her as often as possible. I must have something fresh to relate to
her at every interview; and I must get that “something fresh” out of the
newspapers. I must tell her where I have been, and where I am going to, and what
I have seen, and what I expect to see; and if she wants to go with me, I must
take her, and, what is more, I must be lively, and “come out with a few witty
remarks, and be as amusing as possible”—for (and here is another Secret, another
great discovery thrown in for nothing) I must recollect that “the funny man is
always a favourite with the ladies.” Amazing insight! How does Mr. Flam get down
into these deep, these previously-unsuspected wellsprings of female human
nature? One would like a brief memoir of this remarkable person, accompanied by
his portrait from a photograph, and enriched by a fac-simile (for graphiological
purposes) of his handwriting.
To return once more, and for the last time, to myself. It may be objected that,
although Mr. Flam has illuminated me with an inestimable secret, has fortified
me with invaluable advice for making myself agreeable, and has assured me that
if I attend to it, I may, “after a few weeks, boldly declare my love, and make
certain of receiving a favourable answer,” he has, apparently, omitted, judging
by my abstract of his reply, to inform me of the terms in which I am to make my
offer, when I and my young woman are mutually ready for it. This is true. I am
told to declare my love boldly; but I am not told how to do it, because Mr.
Flam, of London, is honourably unwilling to interfere with the province of a
brother-benefactor, Mr. Hum, of Hull, who for twenty-six postage stamps (see
Advertisement) will continue the process of my enlightenment, from the point at
which it left off, in “the most wonderful, astonishing, and curious work ever
published in the English language, entitled
Matrimony Made Easy; or, How to Win a
Lover.” It is unnecessary to say that I send for this work, and two new
discoveries flash upon me at the first perusal of it.
My first discovery is, that identically the same ideas on the subject of
matrimony, and identically the same phrases in expressing them, appear to have
occurred to Mr. Flam, of London, and to Mr. Hum, of Hull. The whole first part
of Mr. Hum’s pamphlet is, sentence for sentence, and word for word, an exact
repetition of the printed paper previously forwarded to me by Mr. Flam. To
superficial minds this very remarkable coincidence might suggest that Mr. Flam
and Mr. Hum, in spite of the difference in their respective names and addresses,
were one and the same individual. To those who, like myself, look deeper, any
such injurious theory as this is inadmissible, because it implies that a
benefactor to mankind is capable of dividing himself in two for the sake of
fraudulently procuring from the public a double allowance of postage stamps.
This is, under the circumstances, manifestly impossible. Mr. Flam, therefore, in
my mind, remains a distinct and perfect Flam, and Mr. Hum, a distinct and
perfect Hum; and the similarity of their ideas and expressions is simply another
confirmation of the well-known adage which refers to the simultaneous jumping of
two great wits to one conclusion. So much for my first discovery.
The second revelation bursts out on me from the second part of Mr. Hum’s
pamphlet, which I may remark, in parenthesis, is purely and entirely his own. I
have been previously in the habit of believing that offers of marriage might
extend themselves in the matter of verbal expression, to an almost infinite
variety of forms. Mr. Hum, however, taking me up at the point where Mr. Flam has
set me down, amazes and delights me by showing that the matrimonial advances of
the whole population of bachelors may be confidently made to the whole
population of spinsters, in one short and definitely-stated form of words. Mr.
Flam has told me when to declare my love; and Mr. Hum, in the following
paragraph, goes a step further, and tells me how to do it:
“When the gentleman has somewhat familiarised himself with the lady, and
perceived that he is not, at all events, an object of aversion or ridicule, he
should seek a favourable opportunity, and speak to this effect:—‘I have come
(miss, or madam, as the case may be) to take a probably final leave of you.’ The
lady will naturally ask the reason; when the lover can add (and if he is a
fellow of any feeling, the occasion may give a depth of tone and an effect to
his eloquence, that may turn the beam in his favour, if it was an even balance
before):—’Because, madam, I find your society has become so dear to me, that I
fear I must fly to save myself, as I may not dare to hope that the suit of a
stranger might be crowned with success.’”
No more—we single men may think it short—but there is actually not a word more.
Maid or widow, whichever she may be, “crowned with success,” is the last she
will get out of us men. If she means to blush, hesitate, tremble, and sink on
our bosoms, she had better be quick about it, on the utterance of the word
“success.” Our carpet-bag is in the hall, and we shall take that “final leave”
of ours, to a dead certainty, unless she looks sharp. Mr. Hum adds, that she
probably will look sharp. Not a doubt
of it. Thank you, Mr. Hum; you have more than earned your postage stamps; we
need trouble you no further.
I am now thoroughly prepared for my future transactions with the fair sex—but
where, it may be objected, is the woman on whom I am to exercise my little arts?
It is all very well for me to boast that I am above the necessity of toiling
after her, here, there, and everywhere—toil for her, I must: nobody will spare
me that trouble, at any rate. I beg pardon—Destiny (for a consideration of
postage stamps) will willingly spare me the trouble. Destiny, if I will
patiently bide my time (which I am only too willing to do), will hunt out a
woman of the right complexion for me, and will bring her within easy
hearing-distance of the great Hum formula, at the proper moment. How can I
possibly know this? Just as I know everything else, by putting my trust in
advertisements, and not being stingy with my postage stamps. Here is the modest
offer of service which Destiny, speaking through the newspapers, makes to
mankind:
“The
Future Foretold.—Any
persons wishing to have their future lives revealed to them correctly, should
send their age, sex, and eighteen stamps, to Mr. Nimbus (whose prophecies never
fail).”
I send my age, my sex, and my eighteen stamps; and Mr. Nimbus, as the mouthpiece
of Destiny, speaks thus encouragingly in return:
“Private.—I
have carefully studied your destiny, and I find that you were born under the
planet Mars. You have experienced in life some changes, and all has not been
found to answer your expectations. There are brighter days and happier hours
before you, and the present year will bring to you greater advantages than the
past. You will marry a Female of Fair Complexion, most desirous of gaining your
hand.” (That’s the woman! I am perfectly satisfied. Destiny will bring us
together; the system of Mr. Flam will endear us to each other; and the formula
of Mr. Hum will clench the tender business. All right, Mr. Nimbus—what next?)
“You will make a most fortunate speculation with a Male of whom you have some
knowledge”—(evidently the proprietor of the Fabric)—“and, although there will be
some difficulties arise for a time, they will again disappear, and your Star
rises in the ascendant. You will be successful in your undertakings and
pursuits, and you will attain to a position in life desirable to your future
welfare.”
I have done. All the advertisements presented here, I must again repeat, are
real advertisements. Nothing is changed in any of them but the names of the
advertisers. The answers copied are genuine answers obtained, only a short time
since, in the customary way, by formal applications. I need say no more. The
lesson of wise credulity which I undertook to teach, from the record of my own
experience, is now before the world, and I may withdraw again into the healthy,
wealthy, and wise retirement from which I have emerged solely for the good of
others.
Take a last fond look at me before I go. Behold me immovably fixed in my good
opinion of myself, by the discriminating powers of Graphiology; prospectively
enriched by the vast future proceeds of my Fabric; thoroughly well grounded in
the infallible rules for Courtship and Matrimony, and confidently awaiting the
Female of Fair Complexion, on whom I shall practise them. Favoured by these
circumstances, lavishly provided for in every possible respect, free from
everything in the shape of cares, doubts, and anxieties, who can say that I have
not accurately described myself as “the happiest man alive;” and who can venture
to dispute that this position of perfect bliss is the obvious and necessary
consequence of a wise belief in Advertisements?
First published:
All The Year Round 30 April 1859 vol. I pp. 5-10