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Yes, I have written a dictionary. Worcester and Webster are all right in their way, and Stormuth will do very well for Englishmen—but they’re not up to date. Mrs. Century’s book is a bit better and even old Dr. Standard’s Compendium of Useful Information includes my own words, “bromide” and “sulphite.” It’s good enough for last year, but “Burgess Unabridged” will give the diction of the year 1915.

For, the fact is, English is a growing language, and we have to let out the tucks so often, that no last season’s model will ever fit it. English isn’t like French, which is corseted and gloved and clad and shod and hatted strictly according to the rules of the Immortals. We have no Academy, thank Heaven, to tell what is real English and what isn’t. Our Grand Jury is that ubiquitous person, Usage, and we keep him pretty busy at his job. He’s a Progressive and what he likes, he’ll have, in spite of lexicographers, college professors and authors of “His Complete Works.” That’s the reason why English has ousted Volapük and Esperanto as a world language. It snuggles right down where you live and makes itself at home.

How does English shape itself so comfortably to the body of our thought? With a new wrinkle here and a little more breadth there, with fancy trimmings, new styles, fresh materials and a genius for adapting itself to all sorts of wear. Everybody is working at it, tailoring it, fitting it, decorating it. There is no person so humble but that he can suggest an improvement that may easily become the reigning mode.

Slang, I once defined as “The illegitimate sister of Poetry”—but slang is sometimes better than that; it often succeeds in marrying the King’s English, and at that ceremony there are dozens of guests. There’s the poker player, who contributes for his wedding present, “The limit” and “Make good” and “Four flush.” Politics hands over “Boodle,” “Mugwump” and “Gerrymander.” The thief presents his “Jimmy,” “Doss,” “Kip,” “Heeler,” “Split,” “Lag,” “Swag” and “Dope.” The horse race gives us “Neck and neck”; baseball, “Putting one over.” Even the baby offers “Goo-goo.” Illustrations, however, are boring.

But slang, strictly, consists in the adaptation of phrases; it does not often—not often enough at any rate—coin new words. Thieves’ patter or jargon or cant provides us almost with a language of itself, and words from the Underworld are continually being added to the language. Like the turkey trot, “We first endure, then pity, then embrace.” So from all sources the language recruits new phrases, new expressions, even new rules of grammar. Horrible as they are to the conservative, common usage accepts them and they become classic. Professor Lounsbury of Yale is kept busy justifying them. He, alone of all grammarians, sees that the split infinitive must come, that verbs must be constructed of nouns. He recognizes the new function of the potential mood, in “I should worry” and “Wouldn’t that jar you?”

Yes, it’s easy enough to coin a phrase, to adapt an old word to a new use, like “Chestnut” and “Lemon” and “Peach.” It’s easy to abbreviate words, like “Gent” and “Pants” and “Exam” and “Phone” and “Stylo.” It’s easier still to fill the new dictionary with new derivatives from Latin or Greek or crowd in French. The scientific word requires a little invention. “Radioactive” and “Aileron” and “Hypofenyl-tribrompropionic” need only a scholastic delving in ancient tongues. But to invent a new word right out of the air or the cigarette smoke is another thing. And that’s what I determined to do.

Yes, I know it has been tried, but it’s never been seriously and deliberately gone about. It has been haphazard work, the result of a mere accident, or vaudeville high spirits. But the way such neologisms have become quickly current shows that here’s a field for high endeavor, and a little success with “Blurb” and “Goop” encourage me to proceed in the good work. We need so many new words, and we need ’em quick. The question is: How to get ’em?

Of course, we might ransack the back numbers of the language and dig up archaic words. Many such have been dropped from the original Anglo-Saxon. There is “Dindle,” to shake, and “Foin” to thrust, and “Gree” and “Lusk” and “Sweven.” But the need for most of them has long gone by. We do not “Feutre” our spears, because we have no spears to feutre. We carry no “Glaive,” we wear no “Coif.”

So with the bright gems of Elizabethan diction. A “Bonnibel” is now a nectarine. To “Brabble” is now to “Chew the rag.” What is a “Scroyle”?—a “Cad,” a “Bad Actor”? A “Gargrism” has become “A Scream.” So the old names become mere poetic decorations. Why, the word “Fro” we dare use only in a single collocation! And as for “Welkin,” “Lush,” and “Bosky”—who dares to lead their metric feet into the prim paths of prose? Let bygones be bygones. Look elsewhere.

Samoa has an ideal language, and there it was I got my inspiration. Can’t we make English as subtle as Samoan? I wondered. There they have a single word, meaning, “A-party-is-approaching-which-contains-neither-a-clever-man-nor-a-pretty-woman.” Another beautiful word describes “A-man-who-climbs-out-on-the-limbs-of-his-own-breadfruit-tree-to-steal-the-breadfruit-of-his-neighbor.” “Suiia” means “Change-the-subject-you-are-on-dangerous-ground.” Another happy word expresses a familiar situation—“To-look-on-owl-eyed-while-others-are-getting-gifts.” Have we anything in English as charmingly tactful as this? No, our tongue is almost as crude as pidjin-English itself, where piano is “Box-you-fight-him-cry.”

But the time has come for a more scientific attempt to enlarge the language. The needs of the hour are multifarious and all unfilled. There are a thousand sensations that we can describe only by laborious phrases or metaphors, a thousand characters and circumstances, familiar to all, which shriek for description.

It has, of course, been tried before. Think what a success the scheme was when it was so long ago attempted. The first Nonsense Book containing really new words was published in 1846 by Edward Lear, but he failed to appreciate his opportunity. Of all his names, the “Jumblies” alone survive. Lewis Carroll later went about it more deliberately. His immortal poem, “Jabberwocky,” has become a classic; but even in that masterpiece, how many words are adapted to modern use? “Slithy” perhaps and “Chortle”—though no one has ever been able to pronounce it properly to this day. Oh yes, “Galumph,” I forgot that. Not even “The Hunting of the Snark” has made the title rôle popular amongst bromides. Why? His fatal rule was, “Take care of the sounds and the sense will take care of itself.”

A dozen years ago a little girl tried it with fair success. In her “Animal Land, where there are no People,” however, I can find no word I have ever heard used outside its covers, no word like “Hoodlum,” or “Flunk” or “Primp,” “Quiz,” “Cabal” or “Fad” or “Fake.”

The thing must be done, and so I did it. Slang is sporadic; its invention is crude and loose. It is a hit-or-miss method, without direction or philosophy. Our task is serious; we must make one word blossom where a dozen grew before. A myriad necessities urge us. I found myself often confronted with an idea which baffled me and forced me to talk gibberish. How, for instance, can one describe the appearance of an elderly female in plush dancing a too conscientious tango? How do you, gentle reader, portray your emotion when, on a stormy night, as you stand on the corner the trolley-car whizzes by and fails to stop for you? Where is the word that paints the mild, faint enjoyment of a family dinner with your wife’s relations?

You see how inarticulate you are, now, don’t you, when a social emergency arises?—when you want to give swift tongue to your emotions? What can you say when you’re jilted?—how mention the feeling of a broken finger-nail on satin—your esthetic delight in green-trading-stamp furniture? How do you feel with a person whose name you cannot quite remember? Why, we need at least a gross of assorted nouns this very day! What is the name of a business enterprise that was born dead? What do you call the woman who telephones to you during business hours? What is a woman who wears dirty white gloves? What is a man who gives you advice “for your own good”? Well, behold a guide to help you;—read “Burgess Unabridged.” It is the dictionary of the Futurist language!

Yes, my modest “Unabridged” will “fill a long felt want.” It will solidify the chinks of conversation, express the inexpressible, make our English language ornamental, elegant, distinguished, accurate. Other dictionaries have recorded the words of yesterday, my lexicon will give the words of to-morrow. What matter if none of them is “derived from two Greek words”? My words will be imaginotions, penandinkumpoops, whimpusles, mere boojums rather than classic snarks, for I shall not construct “Portmanteau” words, like Lewis Carroll. I shall create them from instinctive, inarticulate emotions, hot from the depths of necessity. No “Onomatopœia,” either, for I do not hold with those who say that the origin of language is in the mere mimicry of natural sounds. No, like the intense poetic pre-Raphaelite female, who says and feels that her soul is violet, when I see a hand-embroidered necktie, I dive deep in my inner consciousness and bring up, writhing in my hand, the glad word, “Gorgule,” or “Golobrifaction” or “Diabob.”

For, as my friend, the Reverend Edward P. Foster, A.M., of Marietta, Ohio, has pointed out, in his great work on Ro, the a priori method is the only rational principle upon which to coin new words. Volapük, Esperanto, Idiom Neutral, Interlingua and Ido all have fallen by the wayside of this “philosophical” route. It is as futile to try to make the sound suggest the sense. For, investigation will show that so many senses are suggested that the word lacks definition. Not only does “stave” seem to imply a barrel, but music. And, if you take the sound alone, we have such different meanings as wright, right, write and rite, not to speak of exactly opposite interpretations in such word as “cleave.”

What Ro, therefore, attempts so ambitiously, I do in a more humble spirit, contenting myself with the manufacture of words to explain some of the more subtle relationships and exigencies of civilized life. I confess the work is, to a great extent, subjective and personal. I have but ministered to my own direst needs.

So contriving, choosing my words from some vague sense of color, mood, an instinctive feeling of appropriateness, I trust that I have not made my method monotonous. I must confess, however, that in my experimentation, certain sounds appealed more strongly than others to my comic spirit. The frequent use of the “oo” will perhaps require an apology, and the almost equally merry “aw.” The other “long” vowels, such as “ee” and “ay” and “o” seemed inadequate to my use. Of consonants, my “G” is, no doubt, most frequent. “G” supplies spuzz to a word that can hardly be obtained elsewhere in the alphabet. “K” also has a bite, but it is frequently too suggestive for our delicate susceptibilities. “L”—what could one do in such a work, without the gentle liquid that euphonizes the most savage of consonants! Also I confess having fallen in love with the anapest.

And yet, many of these words will not, at first sound, seem appropriate. Let me remind you of Mr. Oliver Herford’s not too original discovery (most children make it earlier), than any word, when often repeated, becomes strange and barbaric, even as his favorite “looking-glass” after being pronounced several times, grows marvellously beautiful and romantic.

So, as a corollary to this principle, you will, I hope, find that even my fierce and uncouth syllables may, when iterated, grow less unusual, strangely familiar, even; and, little by little, as their sharp corners and edges are worn smooth by use, they will fit into your conversation and nestle into place, making your talk firmer, more expressive and wonderfully adequate to your daily needs.

When vorianders seek to huzzlecoo,

When jurpid splooch or vilpous drillig bores,

When cowcats kipe, or moobles wog, or you

Machizzled are by yowfs or xenogores,

Remember Burgess Unabridged, and think,

How quisty is his culpid yod and yab!

No fidgeltick, with goigsome iobink,

No varmic orobaldity—his gab!

No more tintiddling slubs, like fidgelticks,

Rizgidgeting your speech, shall lallify;

But your jujasm, like vorgid gollohix,

Shall all your woxy meem golobrify!

Gelett Burgess.

New York, June 1st, 1914.

BURGESS ABRIDGED:

100 CHOICE SELECTIONS

1.	Agowilt.	Sickening terror, unnecessary fear, sudden shock.
2.	Alibosh.	A glaringly obvious falsehood or exaggeration.
3.	Bimp.	A disappointment, a futile rage, a jilt.
4.	Bleesh.	An unpleasant picture; vulgar or obscene.
5.	Blurb.	Praise from one’s self, inspired laudation.
6.	Bripkin.	One who half does things; second-hand, imitation.
7.	Cowcat.	An unimportant guest, an insignificant personality.
8.	Critch.	To array one’s self in uncomfortable splendor.
9.	Culp.	A fond delusion, an imaginary attribute.
10.	Diabob.	An object of amateur art, adorned without taste.
11.	Digmix.	An unpleasant, uncomfortable or dirty occupation.
12.	Drillig.	A tiresome lingerer, one who talks too long.
13.	Edicle.	One who is educated beyond his intellect, a pedant.
14.	Eegot.	A selfishly interested friend, a lover of success.
15.	Elp.	A tricky, sly or elusive person, a promiser.
16.	Fidgeltick.	Food that it is a bore to eat; a taciturn person.
17.	Flooijab.	An apparent compliment with a concealed sting.
18.	Frime.	An educated heart, one who does the right thing.
19.	Fud.	A state of disorder or déshabille, a mess.
20.	Frowk.	A spicy topic, a half-wrong act, a sly suggestion.
21.	Geefoojet.	An unnecessary thing, an article seldom used.
22.	Gixlet.	One who has more heart than brains, an entertainer.
23.	Gloogo.	Foolishly faithful without reward; loyal, fond.
24.	Goig.	One whom one distrusts intuitively, suspicious.
25.	Gollohix.	An untimely noise, a disturbance, especially at night.
26.	Golobrify.	To adorn with unmeaning and extravagant ornament.
27.	Gorgule.	A splendiferous, over-ornate object or gift.
28.	Gorm.	A human hog; to take more than one’s share.
29.	Gowyop.	A perplexity wherein familiar things seem strange.
30.	Gubble.	Society talk, the hum of foolish conversation.
31.	Huzzlecoo.	An intimate talk, a confidential colloquy.
32.	Hygog.	An unsatisfied desire, something out of one’s reach.
33.	Hyprijimp.	A man who does woman’s work; one alone amid women.
34.	Igmoil.	A sordid quarrel over money matters.
35.	Impkin.	A superhuman pet, a baby in beast form.
36.	Iobink.	An unplaceable resemblance, an inaccessible memory.
37.	Jip.	A faux pas, a dangerous subject of conversation.
38.	Jirriwig.	A traveller who does not see the country.
39.	Jujasm.	An expansion of sudden joy after suspense.
40.	Jullix.	A mental affinity, one with similar tastes or memory.
41.	Jurp.	An impudent servant or underling, a saucy clerk.
42.	Kidloid.	A precocious or self-assertive child. Enfant terrible.
43.	Kipe.	To inspect appraisingly, as women do one another.
44.	Kripsle.	An annoying physical sensation or defect.
45.	Lallify.	To prolong a story tiresomely, or repeat a joke.
46.	Leolump.	An interrupter of conversations, an egoistic bore.
47.	Looblum.	Palatable but indigestible food; flattery.
48.	Machizzle.	To attempt unsuccessfully to please, to try to like.
49.	Meem.	An artificial half-light that women love; gloom.
50.	Mooble.	A mildly amusing affair, a semi-interesting person.
51.	Moosoo.	Sulky, out of sorts or out of order; delayed.
52.	Nink.	An “antique” resurrected for decorative effect.
53.	Nodge.	The only one of its kind, or having no mate.
54.	Nulkin.	The secret explanation, the inside history.
55.	Oofle.	A person whose name one cannot remember; to forget.
56.	Orobaldity.	Modern mysticism, a short cut to success.
57.	Ovotch.	A thing in style, the current fad.
58.	Paloodle.	To give unnecessary advice; one who thus bores.
59.	Pawdle.	One vicariously famous, or with undeserved prominence.
60.	Persotude.	Social warmth or magnetism, amount of popular favor.
61.	Pooje.	To embarrass; a regrettable discovery.
62.	Quink.	An expression or mood of anxious expectancy.
63.	Quisty.	Useful and reliable without being ornamental.
64.	Quoob.	A person or thing obviously out of place, a misfit.
65.	Rawp.	A reliably unreliable person, one always late.
66.	Rizgidget.	An inability to make up one’s mind, an indecision.
67.	Rowtch.	To eat in extraordinary fashion, to gormandize.
68.	Skinje.	To feel shudderingly, to shrink from instinctively.
69.	Skyscrimble.	To go off at a tangent, mentally; to escape logic.
70.	Slub.	A mild indisposition which does not incapacitate.
71.	Snosh.	Vain talk; a project that is born dead.
72.	Spigg.	A decoration of overt vanity; to attract notice, paint.
73.	Spillix.	Accidental good luck, uncharacteristically skilful.
74.	Splooch.	One who doesn’t know his own business; a failure.
75.	Spuzz.	Mental force, aggressive intellectuality, stamina.
76.	Squinch.	To watch and wait anxiously, hoping for a lucky turn.
77.	Tashivation.	The art of answering without listening to questions.
78.	Thusk.	Something that has quickly passed from one’s life.
79.	Tintiddle.	An imaginary conversation; wit coming too late.
80.	Udney.	A beloved bore; one who loves but does not understand.
81.	Uglet.	An unpleasant duty too long postponed.
82.	Unk.	An unwelcome, inappropriate or duplicate present.
83.	Varm.	The quintessence of sex; sex hatred or antipathy.
84.	Vilp.	An unsportsmanlike player, a bad loser, a braggart.
85.	Voip.	Food that gives no pleasure to the palate.
86.	Vorge.	Voluntary suffering, unnecessary effort or exercise.
87.	Voriander.	A woman who pursues men or demands attentions.
88.	Whinkle.	Hypocritical graciousness; to glow with vanity.
89.	Wijjicle.	A perverse household article, always out of order.
90.	Wog.	Food on the face; unconscious adornment of the person.
91.	Wowze.	A female fool, an unconsciously ridiculous woman.
92.	Wox.	A state of placid, satisfied contentment.
93.	Wumgush.	Women’s insincere flattery of each other.
94.	Xenogore.	An interloper who keeps one from interesting things.
95.	Yab.	A monomaniac or fanatic, enthusiasm over one thing.
96.	Yamnoy.	A bulky, unmanageable object to be carried.
97.	Yod.	A ban or restriction on pleasant things.
98.	Yowf.	One whose importance exceeds his merit; a rich fool.
99.	Zeech.	A monologuist; one who is lively, but exhausting.
100.	Zobzib.	An amiable blunderer, one displaying misguided zeal.

BURGESS UNABRIDGED

A NEW DICTIONARY