Truth in Advertising

SWINBURNE

SOME years ago an ingenious practical joker proposed to the Associated Advertising Clubs of the World the slogan, ‘Truth in Advertising.’ It was a delectable phrase to mouth, a thumbs-in-the-vest sort of phrase. It elevated peddler into preacher overnight. It enabled the veriest Munchausen in the profession to turn disciple of the gospel of truth, simply by wearing a button.

Small wonder, then, that advertising men — like a crowd of hypnotists solemnly putting themselves to sleep by their own passes — have not only adopted the slogan, but, by a natural process of rationalization, have come to believe that it is actually true. I know of no better demonstration of the manner in which the printed word, oft repeated, may create and perpetuate an illusion in the minds of men. To this day most advertising men, victims of their own technique, swear that they speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—dashing off preposterous imperatives and monstrous superlatives with the air of Moses bringing down tablets from the Mount.

Now all might have been well with this Sacred Order of Exaggeration if the pressure of competition, in these days of depression, had not raised a stench that fairly blasted the odor of sanctity from the advertising temple. Brother Bill spun a yarn a mite too big for comfort, and somebody called him a liar. Liar yourself, you big so-and-so, said Brother Bill, and the fight was on. Compared to the circus that ensued, the old affair of the pot and the kettle was nothing but a side show.

To-day, therefore, the very premise which gave rise to the slogan, ‘Truth in Advertising,’ is on the pan. How much advertising is really ‘true’? Does advertising, on the whole, present statements founded upon actual facts?

I

Yes, I would say — being an advertising man myself — most advertising is based upon actual facts. But very little of it is really true. Who in the world wants truth in advertising?

I have never seen truth in advertising attempted, but it could be done. A really conscientious manufacturer of mouth wash, for instance, might advertise as follows; —

Correspondence courses present an especially fruitful field for truth in advertising. Admire the candor of a ‘college ’ which advertises: —

Or perhaps you would praise a department store which observes truth in advertising?

You who demand the truth — have you not left, within your souls, one single shred of compassion? Can you not spare a few drops of the milk of human kindness, to be spread at large among mankind?

Advertisers do not deal with you. They deal with people in the mass. Would you reveal the truth to all humanity? God shelter people from the truth! May facts be concealed from them forever!

Dare you face reality? Have you ever known one man or woman in the world who had the courage impersonally to evaluate stark existence? Is not your own life one long epic of industriously fostered illusions?

II

Would you have ‘Truth in Democracy’?

Sharpen your pencil, censor, and we will start at the beginning. That line, ‘All men are created equal’ — cross that out. That’s almost as bad as ‘Not a cough in a carload.’

Ah, here’s a phrase which certainly must be deleted: ‘Government of the people, by the people, for the people.’ Some of these copy writers are brilliant fellows, you know, but they simply will not stick to facts.

What! Did we actually use the slogan, ‘ Keep the world safe for democracy’? And we were n’t prosecuted by the Better Business Bureau?

Would you have ‘Truth in Religion’?

Let us revise the hymnal. It will not be so difficult. A sample page, for instance, might appear thus: —

Would you have ‘Truth in Behavior’?

Rule out ‘I’m pleased to meet you’ at once. Sincerity is the keynote! Exclaim, ‘I loathe the sight of you and I hope you choke.’

Never say, ‘Oh, must you go so soon? It’s still early.’ Just shout, ‘Hooray,’ and kick your guests out jovially, with the aid of a lead pipe.

When your hostess asks her daughter to play the piano for you, simply walk out of the house and never come back. At bridge, st rangle your partner.

Copy-edit from your vocabulary the phrase, ‘We’ve had a marvelous time.’ Tell your host the truth, and slap his face by way of emphasis.

Would you have ‘Truth in Education’?

Very well — let us turn a few favorite pictures toward the wall.

Dear dashing Teddy — he of the teeth — ornamented with six-shooter and ten-gallon hat, flicking a frolicsome lariat as he spurs his bucking broncho up San Juan hill at the head of the whole American army.

The Mayflower sailing from England to the United States.

Forerunner of futuristic art, awesome in design, done in tints horrible and fantastic, that for years graced the wall of all well-ordered schoolrooms — portrait of the human stomach, showing the effects of alcohol.

Lindbergh, first flier ever to cross the Atlantic.

Father Longfellow, seated on the stairs with grandfather’s clock behind him and open-mouthed grandchildren at his feet, reciting the stanza that has made him the greatest of all American poets: —

III

Seriously, truth is actually becoming a menace in these matters. Fact-finding literalists are slowly crucifying education. The cancer of reality gnaws at the gall bladder of religion. Among the younger generation, behavior is degenerating into sincerity. And how long can democracy hold out against ‘Of Thee I Sing’?

Worse than that — Pan has turned fourth-dimensional. Venus is but the creature of a Freudian complex. Heaven and hell are states of mind. Keats is an agglomeration of vowels and consonants, and Beethoven a carefully calculated succession of vibrations.

But yet have hope, ye of little faith! Thank mass production and whatever other gods may be that there is still alive in the world one lone champion of the glorious banner of illusion.

Minnie Schultz sits on her attic cot, surveying her bulging calves. For her face she knows there is no hope, but love does not stop at the chin. If only that excess ninety pounds . . .

Ah! It says in the paper, ‘Take Madam Maloney’s curious concoction for three weeks, and flesh will fall from you like leaves in October, revealing the lithe limbs in all their pristine elegance. Only 50 cents a bottle . . .’

Fifty cents for romance! Fifty cents for love! Fifty cents to tread the path of Guinevere, to emulate the exploits of Cleopatra. Who but Jonathan Edwards incarnate would begrudge the spending of that fifty cents, or challenge the advertising which provoked it?

Hiram Dobbs, shipping clerk with leanings toward the ukulele, swings his chattering chariot toward an aurora borealis through which blazes in neon the words, ‘Super power.’ ‘Two gallons of gas,’says Hiram.

Why does he choose the service station with the slogan ‘Super power’? God help him, he knows not. Heredity may unveil a moron mother, and a father whose face is a testimonial to a misspent life. Physiology may disclose twenty years of malnutrition. Psychiatry may reveal a mighty inferiority complex. Hiram’s I. Q.’s may sag as low as his shoulders. But in his blood there flow, nevertheless, the desire of Caligula, the ambition of Alexander, the self-esteem of Narcissus.

Super power! I shall fly, I shall soar, I shall conquer! Nay to me she dare not say! Rapture shall be mine, — if the missus will let her off, — when to the magic corridors of Coney Island I lure the lovely Amelia Pratt!

Consider Abner Snodgrass. He is not a happy man. Women observe him never. He knows not whether it is presence of B. O. or absence of S. A. — but the fact remains that his virtue is desperately in need of being assailed.

Then comes the cheering message: —

Thirteen dollars and seventy-nine cents, and Mamie will make eyes at me! Ten short weeks, and Lucy will be jealous, and long to stroke my hair!

You truth-mongers — would you forbid this Caliban to become an Orpheus? Would you chide the ingenius satirist who collects $13.79, that this clod may catch for an instant the illusion of selfesteem?

Then there is the matter of linoleum.

Marriage is a poor thing, at best. I know of no other institution with respect to which, in the course of the last four thousand years, there has been so little improvement.

Small wonder, then, that little Luella Witherspoon (née Doolittle) is becoming discouraged. Not that Witherspoon drinks, fights, philanders, or sings while shaving; to the contrary, he appears to be shriveling into desuetude, like a grape hanging too long upon the vine.

Some secret malign influence is at work within that house!

At last Luella spies an advertisement that reveals the extraordinary effect of environment upon the subconscious. If you would have love, you must have beauty in all things — even in kitchen floors. Linoleum —

Ah! The cracks in the kitchen floor! Lay new linoleum — and the glorious years stretch ahead, one long magnificent epic of thrice-concentrated conjugal devotion.

Would you maltreat the merchandiser who thus contrives, by re-covering a kitchen, to perpetuate a paradise?

IV

I crave an indulgence for the poor devils who write the stuff believed by Luella Witherspoon, Abner Snodgrass, Hiram Dobbs, and Minnie Schultz.

Jason had his golden fleece, Galahad his grail — but these pitiful sloganeers have nothing save a doubtful income, a muddled sense of shame, a heartful of shattered ideals, and a profound faith in the futility of existence. To them, mathematics itself is a hoax, logic a racket, faith a side show, and truth the supreme harlequinade. To them,

Painfully they grind out their alliterative grist, little knowing that the only true things that exist, in the lives of thousands, are the very illusions which this grist creates. And thus may they continue — for if they should speak the truth, then, indeed, ‘This is the end of every man’s desire.’