The Rough Words Society

"The Rough Words Society" by Charles Battell Loomis is a whimsical and satirical exploration of language and its quirks. Through a playful narrative, Loomis delves into the complexities of communication, examining the impact of words on human relationships and societal norms. The book is characterized by its clever humor and sharp observations, inviting readers to reflect on the power of language while enjoying a light-hearted yet thought-provoking story.

• Short story

								
The other day I passed a house on which there was a sign that read,
“The Rough Words Society.” Curious to know what it could mean, I
retraced my steps, and met a millionaire whom I had long admired
from a distance--he was so rich--just leaving the door. It was a
presumptuous thing to do, but I said, “How do you do, sir?” in my
best manner. He bowed with some urbanity, and I ventured to ask him
whether he could tell me anything about the society whose rooms he
had just left. “I thought maybe you were president, sir, or one of
the directors.”

“No; I am a subscriber. If you care to hear about it, come down-town
with me, as I am in a hurry,” he replied.

A minute later I was actually in a cab with a millionaire! My heart
beat hard, but I kept my ears open, and he said:

“You see, a multi-millionaire like myself seldom meets the frank
side of people. They are afraid of offending me,” he observed, as we
went on our way. “My pastor hangs on my words, my clerks speak in
subdued tones, my servants hardly dare address me; and yet, I was
once a barefoot boy, and was considered a scapegrace by the village
people who to-day bow ceremoniously when I chance to go back to my
native place. Well, such sycophancy becomes wearing, and I often used
to wish that some one would tell me I lied, or some other wholesome
truth.”

I shook my head deprecatingly, whereat he seemed annoyed, but went
on: “One day I was passing through the street where you met me, and I
saw the sign, and, like yours, my curiosity was excited, and I went
in. I found a room somewhat like a telegraph-office in appearance. A
very downright, uncompromising-looking man sat at a roll-top desk,
while ranged against the wall were several men of exceedingly bluff
appearance. ‘Can you tell me what the aims of your society are?’ I
asked the man. ‘Certainly I can,’ said he. ‘I wouldn’t be here if
I couldn’t.’ Not a cringe, you see. It was refreshing. ‘Well, will
you?’ ‘It depends,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know for? Are you a
reporter, or do you want to subscribe?’

“I suddenly divined the purpose of the society, and I said: ‘I
want to subscribe. What are your terms?’ ‘A hundred dollars for
a fifteen-minute séance, one hundred and fifty dollars for a
half-hour, and two hundred dollars for a full hour.’ I handed him a
hundred-dollar bill and said: ‘Explain.’ ‘Jack,’ said he, addressing
a bullet-headed man who was sitting with his feet up on the railing
that divided the room into two parts, ‘give this man a piece of
your mind.’ Jack ran through a directory of millionaires containing
photographs and short biographical sketches, and when he had found
mine he sailed in and talked as plainly as any one could. Didn’t say
a word that wasn’t true; but he didn’t mince his language, and he
was no more abashed by my position in the world than if I’d still
been a barefoot boy. It did me good. He overhauled many of my acts
during the last twenty years, and talked to me like a Dutch uncle.
Refreshed? Why, a Turkish bath is not in it for comfort! After he’d
finished, the manager said I could have an extra in the way of a
little billingsgate if I cared to; but, if I was born poor, I have
always had gentlemanly instincts, and so I told him I guessed not.

“As I came away, he said: ‘Glad to have you call any time that you
feel the need of a few plain truths. We have a minister who says what
he thinks in a very trenchant way, and I’m sure you’d be glad to let
him give you a raking over. Here’s one of our cards. Drop in any
time you’re passing. If, for any reason, you are not able to come,
we can send a man to take up his abode in your house, or to give you
half-hour talks from the shoulder, and you can have a monthly account
with us. Say a good word for us to any of your plutocratic friends
who are tired of sycophancy. Good day, old man.’”

I was aghast at what he had told me, and I said: “I wonder at his
temerity!”

“Why,” said the millionaire, “I love him for it! After a directors’
meeting, when I have been kotowed to until my gorge rises, I just
drop in there, and they tell me unpleasant truths about myself with
the utmost freedom,--you see, they keep posted about me,--and I come
out feeling a hundred per cent. better. Well, here’s my office. Good
day, young man.”

“Good day, sir, and thank you for letting me ride with you.”

He slammed the door as if vexed, and as he approached the door of his
office a negro ran to open it, and two office-boys took his coat and
hat, and I envied the great man from the bottom of my heart.
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