a million voices; no one can reach so many races, so many hearts and
intellects, as you–except Rudyard Kipling, and he cannot do it without
your help. If the Associated Press will adopt and use our simplified
forms, and thus spread them to the ends of the earth, covering the whole
spacious planet with them as with a garden of flowers, our difficulties
are at an end.
Every day of the three hundred and sixty-five the only pages of the
world’s countless newspapers that are read by all the human beings and
angels and devils that can read, are these pages that are built out of
Associated Press despatches. And so I beg you, I beseech you–oh, I
implore you to spell them in our simplified forms. Do this daily,
constantly, persistently, for three months–only three months–it is all
I ask. The infallible result?–victory, victory all down the line. For
by that time all eyes here and above and below will have become adjusted
to the change and in love with it, and the present clumsy and ragged
forms will be grotesque to the eye and revolting to the soul. And we
shall be rid of phthisis and phthisic and pneumonia and pneumatics, and
diphtheria and pterodactyl, and all those other insane words which no man
addicted to the simple Christian life can try to spell and not lose some
of the bloom of his piety in the demoralizing attempt. Do not doubt it.
We are chameleons, and our partialities and prejudices change places with
an easy and blessed facility, and we are soon wonted to the change and
happy in it. We do not regret our old, yellow fangs and snags and tushes
after we have worn nice, fresh, uniform store teeth a while.
Do I seem to be seeking the good of the world? That is the idea. It is
my public attitude; privately I am merely seeking my own profit. We all
do it, but it is sound and it is virtuous, for no public interest is
anything other or nobler than a massed accumulation of private interests.
In 1883, when the simplified-spelling movement first tried to make a
noise, I was indifferent to it; more–I even irreverently scoffed at it.
What I needed was an object-lesson, you see. It is the only way to teach
some people. Very well, I got it. At that time I was scrambling along,
earning the family’s bread on magazine work at seven cents a word,
compound words at single rates, just as it is in the dark present.
I was the property of a magazine, a seven-cent slave under a boiler-iron
contract. One day there came a note from the editor requiring me to
write ten pages–on this revolting text: “Considerations concerning the
alleged subterranean holophotal extemporaneousness of the conchyliaceous
superimbrication of the Ornithorhyncus, as foreshadowed by the
unintelligibility of its plesiosaurian anisodactylous aspects.”
Ten pages of that. Each and every word a seventeen-jointed vestibuled
railroad train. Seven cents a word. I saw starvation staring the family
in the face. I went to the editor, and I took a stenographer along so as
to have the interview down in black and white, for no magazine editor can
ever remember any part of a business talk except the part that’s got
graft in it for him and the magazine. I said, “Read that text, Jackson,
and let it go on the record; read it out loud.” He read it:
“Considerations concerning the alleged subterranean holophotal
extemporaneousness of the conchyliaceous superimbrication of the
Ornithorhyncus, as foreshadowed by the unintelligibility of its
plesiosaurian anisodactylous aspects.”
I said, “You want ten pages of those rumbling, great, long, summer
thunderpeals, and you expect to get them at seven cents a peal?”
He said, “A word’s a word, and seven cents is the contract; what are you
going to do about it?”
I said, ” Jackson, this is cold-blooded oppression. What’s an average
English word?”
He said, “Six letters.”
I said, “Nothing of the kind; that’s French, and includes the spaces
between the words; an average English word is four letters and a half.
By hard, honest labor I’ve dug all the large words out of my vocabulary