A LETTER TO A YOUNG PUBLISHER
Reading edition
Since, my dear Jones, you are good enough to ask for my advice, need I say that your success in business will depend chiefly upon judicious advertisement? You are bringing out, I understand, a thrilling story of domestic life, entitled "Maria's Marriage." Already, I am glad to learn, you have caused a paragraph to appear in the literary journals contradicting "the widespread report that Mr. Kipling and the German Emperor have collaborated in the production of this novel, the appearance of which is awaited with such extraordinary interest." And you have induced a number of papers to give prominence to the fact that Mr. Penwiper dines daily off curry and clotted cream. So far, so good. Your next step will be to send out review-copies, together with ready-made laudatory criticisms; in order, as you will explain, to save the hard worked reviewers trouble. But, you will say, supposing this ingenious device to fail? Supposing "Maria's Marriage" to be universally "slated"? Well, even then you need not despair. With a little practice, you will learn the art of manufacturing an attractive advertisement column from the most unpromising material. Let me give you a brief example of the method:—
I.—The Raw Material.
"Mr. Penwiper's latest production, 'Maria's Marriage,' scarcely calls for serious notice. It seems hard to believe that even the most tolerant reader will contrive to study with attention a work of which every page contains glaring errors of taste. Humour, smartness, and interest are all conspicuously wanting."—The Thunderer.
"This book is undeniably third-rate—dull, badly-written, incoherent; in fine, a dismal failure."—The Wigwam.
"If 'Maria's Marriage' has any real merit, it is as an object-lesson to aspiring authors. Here, we would say to them, is a striking example of the way in which romance should not be written. Set yourself to produce a work exactly its opposite in every particular, and the chances are that you will produce, if not a masterpiece, at least, a tale free from the most glaring faults. For the terrible warning thus afforded by his volume to budding writers, Mr. Penwiper deserves to be heartily thanked."—Daily Telephone.
"'Maria's Marriage' is another book that we have received in the course of the month."—The Parachute.
II.—The Result.
"Maria's Marriage!" "Maria's Marriage!"
Gigantic Success—The Talk of London.
The 29th edition will be issued this week if the sale of twenty-eight previous ones makes this necessary. Each edition is strictly limited!
"Maria's Marriage!"
The voice of the Press is simply unanimous. Read the following extracts—taken almost at random from the reviews of leading papers.
"Mr. Penwiper's latest production ... calls for serious notice ... the reader will ... study with attention a work of which every page contains taste, humour, smartness and interest!"—The Thunderer.
"Undeniably ... fine!"—The Wigwam.
"Has ... real merit ... an object lesson ... a striking example of the way in which romance ... should be written. A masterpiece ... free from faults. Mr. Penwiper deserves to be heartily thanked."—Daily Telephone.
"The book ... of the month!"—The Parachute, &c., &c.
"Maria's Marriage!" A veritable triumph! Order it from your bookseller to-day!
That, my dear Jones, is how the trick is done. I hope to give you some further hints on a future occasion.
"Pray, after you," as the glass of water said to the pill.
Truism for Teetotalers.—When a man is out of spirits—he should take wine.
A Needless Question.—"Do you want a loan?"
The British "Public."—The beer-shop.
Morning Envelopes.—Dressing gowns.
"Operator" (desperately, after half an hour's fruitless endeavour to make a successful "picture" from unpromising sitter). "Suppose, madam, we try a pose with just the least suggestion of—er—sauciness?"
Gushing Hospitality.
(Time 3 p.m.).—Hospitable Host. "Have c'gar, old f'lla?"
Languid Visitor. "No—thanks."
H. H. "Cigarette then?"
His Visitor. "No—thanks. Nevar smoke 'mejately after breakfast."
H. H. "Can't refuse a toothpick, then, old f'lla?"
Proportions.
Buyer. "In future, as my collection increases, and my wall-space is limited, and price no object, perhaps you would let me have a little more 'picture,' and a little less 'mount'!"
Ingenuous!
Jones (to his fair partner, after their opponents have declared "clubs"). "Shall I play to 'clubs', partner?"
Fair Partner (who has never played bridge before). "Oh, no, please don't, Mr. Jones. I've only got two little ones."
She. "And are all these lovely things about which you write imaginary?"
The Poet. "Oh, no, Miss Ethel. I have only to open my eyes and I see something beautiful before me."
She. "Oh, how I wish I could say the same!"
[At The R.A.—First Painter. "I've just been showing my aunt round. Most amusing. Invariably picks out the wrong pictures to admire and denounces the good ones!"
Second Painter. "Did she say anything about mine?"
First Painter. "Oh, she liked yours!"
"I say, old man, I've invented a new drink. Big success! Come and try it."
"What's it made of?"
"Well, it's something like the ordinary whisky and soda, but you put more whisky in it!"
A PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY
Sylvia. "I wonder whether he'll be a soldier or a sailor?"
Mamma. "Wouldn't you like him to be an artist, like papa?"
Sylvia. "Oh, one in the family's quite enough!"
"The Bitter End."—The last half inch of a halfpenny cigar.
The worst possible Name for an Author.—Dr. Dozy.
Why oughtn't a boot and shoemaker to be trusted? Because he's a slippery customer.
The Race for Wealth.—Jews.
Basso Profondo.—A deep draught of bitter beer.
Exercise for City Clerks.—A run on a Bank.
Passing the Time.—Going by a clock.
Coming off with flying colours
