Philoprogenitiveness, 0.”
Having gazed on this for a few moments in mute astonishment—during which the Professor took a glass of brandy and water, and afterwards a mouthful of tobacco—I turned to him and requested an explanation.
“Why,” said he, “it’s very simple; the number 12 is the maximum, 1 the minimum; for instance, you are as benevolent as a man can be—therefore I mark you, Benevolence, 12. You have little or no self-esteem—hence I place you, Self-esteem, ½. You’ve scarcely any credulity, don’t you see?”
I did see! This was my discovery. I saw at a flash how the English language was susceptible of improvement, and, fired with the glorious idea, I rushed from the room and the house; heedless of the Professor’s request that I would buy more of his Invigorator; heedless of his alarmed cry that I would pay for the bottle I had got; heedless that I tripped on the last step of the Gyascutus House, and smashed there the precious fluid (the step has now a growth of four inches of hair on it, and the people use it as a door-mat); I rushed home, and never grew calm till with pen, ink, and paper before me, I commenced the development of my system.
This system—shall I say this great system?—is exceedingly simple, and easily explained in a few words. In the first place, “figures won’t lie.” Let us then represent by the number 100, the maximum, the ne plus ultra of every human quality—grace, beauty, courage, strength, wisdom, learning—everything. Let perfection, I say, be represented by 100, and an absolute minimum of all qualities by the number 1.
Then by applying the numbers between, to the adjectives used in conversation, we shall be able to arrive at a very close approximation to the idea we wish to convey; in other words, we shall be enabled to speak the truth. Glorious, soul-inspiring idea! For instance, the most ordinary question asked of you is, “How do you do?” To this, instead of replying, “Pretty well,” “Very well,” “Quite well,” or the like absurdities—after running through your mind that perfection of health is 100, no health at all, 1—you say, with a graceful bow, “Thank you, I’m 52 to-day;” or, feeling poorly, “I’m 13, I’m obliged to you,” or, “I’m 68,” or “75,” or “87½” as the case may be! Do you see how very close in this way you may approximate to the truth; and how clearly your questioner will understand what he so anxiously wishes to arrive at—your exact state of health?
Let this system be adopted into our elements of grammar, our conversation, our literature, and we become at once an exact, precise, mathematical, truth-telling people. It will apply to everything but politics; there, truth being of no account, the system is useless. But in literature, how admirable! Take an example:—
As a 19 young and 76 beautiful lady was 52 gaily tripping down the side-walk of our 84 frequented street, she accidentally came in contact—100 (this shows that she came in close contact)—with a 73 fat, but 87 good-humoured looking gentleman, who was 93 (i.e., intently) gazing into the window of a toy-shop. Gracefully 56 extricating herself, she received the excuses of the 96 embarrassed Falstaff with a 68 bland smile, and continued on her way. But hardly—7—had she reached the corner of the block, ere she was overtaken by a 24 young man, 32 poorly dressed, but of an 85 expression of countenance; 91 hastily touching her 54 beautifully rounded arm, he said, to her 67 surprise—
“Madam, at the window of the toy-shop yonder, you dropped this bracelet, which I had the 71 good fortune to observe, and now have the 94 happiness to hand to you.”
(Of course the expression “94 happiness” is merely the young man’s polite hyperbole.)