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As you stood before the automatic machine on the station platform,
making an imbecile choice between a packet of gooseberry nougat and
a slab of the gum caramel, you could not help seeing on the level of
your eye this notice:--"BLACKING-CREAM. ASK FOR HIGLINSON'S, AND TAKE
NO OTHER."
Similar announcements met you on every hoarding, in almost every paper
and magazine, on every omnibus. Neat little packets of HIGLINSON's
Blacking-cream were dropped through your letter-box, with a printed
request that you would honour Mr. HIGLINSON by trying it. Leaflets
were handed you in the street to tell you what public analysts
said about it, and in what great hotels it was the only blacking
used. Importunity pays. Sooner or later you bought HIGLINSON's
Blacking-cream. You then found out that it was just about as good as
any other, and went on buying it.
In one way this was very good for Mr. HIGLINSON, because he became
very rich; in other ways it was not so good for him. For a long time
he had nothing to do with public life; the public never thought about
his existence; to the public he was not a man at all--he was only
part of the name of the stuff they used for their boots. If he had
introduced himself to a stranger, giving the name of HIGLINSON, it is
probable that the stranger would have remarked jocularly, "No relation
to the Blacking-cream, I presume?" HIGLINSON knew this, and it pained
him deeply, for he was a sensitive man.
Because he was sensitive and felt things so much, he wrote a volume of
very melancholy verses. He was unmarried and lonely, and he wanted to
lead a high life. He said as much in his verses. But what comes well
from Sir GALAHAD comes ill from the proprietor of a Blacking-cream;
and--from idiotic notions about pluck and honesty--he had put his own
name to his book. Unfortunately, those who feel much are not always
those who can express much; and HIGLINSON could not express anything.
So critics with a light mind had a very fine time with these
verses. They quoted them, with the prefatory remark:--"The cream
of the collection--perhaps we might say the Blacking-cream of the
collection--is the following," and they wound up their criticism
with saying that the book must have been simply published as an
advertisement. Mr. HIGLINSON could hardly have been mad enough to
have printed such stuff from any other motive.
Of course HIGLINSON should have changed his name, and should have
married. But the idiotic notions about pluck prevented him from
changing his name; and he would not marry a woman who accepted him
from only mercenary motives. He was so unattractive that he did
not think it possible a woman would marry him for any other reason.
However, he could not always be superintending the manufacture of
Blacking-cream; and it was obvious to him that he could publish no
more verses. So he devoted himself to philanthropy in a quiet and
unostentatious way. He attempted the reclamation of street-arabs.
He worked among them. He spent vast sums on providing education,
training, and decent pleasures for them. A man who wrote for _The
Scalpel_ found him out at last. Next day there was a pretty little
paragraph in _The Scalpel_, showing Mr. HIGLINSON up, and suggesting
that this was a clever attempt to get the London shoe-blacks to use
HIGLINSON's Blacking-cream. The Blacking-cream, by the way, had never
been advertised in _The Scalpel_.
HIGLINSON was furious. He spent a little money in finding out who had
written the paragraph. Then he walked up to the writer in a public
street, with raised walking-stick. "Now, Sir," he said, "you shall
have the thrashing that you deserve."
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But it happened that the writer was physically superior to HIGLINSON;
so it was the writer who did the thrashing, and HIGLINSON who took it.
Next day, _The Scalpel_ amused itself with HIGLINSON to the extent of
half a column. The notice was headed:--
"MR. HIGLINSON ADVERTISES HIMSELF AGAIN."
Other newspapers also amused themselves, and HIGLINSON became
notorious. The Blacking-cream sold better than ever, and brought him
enormous profits. But if he attempted to spend those profits on any
object, good or bad, it was always insisted that he was simply doing
it for advertisement. The public became interested in HIGLINSON; and
untrue stories about his private life appeared freely in personal
columns. He was rich enough now to have relinquished his business, but
those idiotic notions about pluck prevented him from doing this. He
meant to go through with it, and to make the public believe in him
just as much as they believed in the Blacking-cream. He found about
this time someone who did believe in him; he began to change his views
about marriage; he was to some extent consoled.
He was passing over the bridge one night, and had just bought
an evening paper. His own name caught his eye. It was the usual
paragraph, not more hateful to him than others that had appeared, as
far as he himself was concerned; but her name was in it as well, and
he imagined to himself just how she would feel when she read it. He
walked on a few paces, and then his pluck all vanished suddenly, as
if it had been blown away into space, and it did not seem to be worth
while to stop in such a world any longer.
The jury returned the usual verdict; but _The Scalpel_ did not
hesitate to hint that this suicide had simply been intended as an
advertisement, and that HIGLINSON had always supposed that his rescue
would be a certainty.
He might have saved himself all this, of course, by a few full-page
advertisements in _The Scalpel_. But then he had those idiotic notions
about pluck, and he was reluctant to bribe his enemies. It is a very
dangerous thing to have notions about anything.
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