Before beginning to read proof, a man usually prepares himself by learning how to make the technical marks used in correcting; he then reads a chapter on the use of capitals; takes up a grammar, and reviews the rules of punctuation; and by reading, and conversing with readers, gets such helps as give him a good degree of confidence. But at the very threshold of his duties he is met by a little “dwarfish demon” called “Style,” who addresses him somewhat after this fashion: “As you see me now, so I have appeared ever since the first type was set in this office. Everything here must be done as I say. You may mark as you please, but don’t violate the commands of Style. I may seem to disappear for a time, when there is a great rush of work, and you may perhaps bring yourself to believe that Style is dead. But do not deceive yourself,—Style never dies. When everything is going merrily, and you are rejoicing at carrying out some pet plan of your own, you will find me back again, tearing the forms to pieces, and again asserting my irrevocable authority. Stick to my orders, and all will be well. Don’t tell me of grammarians or lex­i­cog­raphers; say nothing of better ways, or improvements or {p60} progress. I am Style, and my laws are like those of the Medes and Persians.” And Style states his true character.

Unfortunately for the proof-reader, Style seldom writes his laws; or, if at any time written, their visible form presently perishes, and they can only be got at, as one may learn the common law of England, through past decisions. You, my young friend, may in vain consult old proofs; works formerly read, at the desk you now occupy, by some vanished predecessor. Your searching cannot help you much; for authors being without the jurisdiction, are independent of the authority, of Style,—they may allow him to dominate over their works, or they may not. How, then, are you to distinguish, and select as models, those which were read under the direct supervision of Style? In the course of a few years you may come to know a portion of his laws; but the whole code is past finding out.

To drop the personification, every office has a style—an arrangement of details—peculiar to itself. In one, “Government” is spelled with a capital; in a second, “government” is spelled with a lower-case “g”; in this office, the four seasons are always “Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter”; in that, they are “spring, summer,” etc., having capitals only when personified: and so of a thousand other cases in cap­i­tal­i­za­tion. In this office, before a quoted extract we put a colon and dash, thus:—while, in the office across the way, the style is to put a colon only: and, a little farther on, is an office which uses {p61} only the dash—yet a fourth, round the corner, puts a comma and dash, thus,—while a fifth undertakes to use all these and even additional methods, as the period, the semicolon, and dash, selecting as the sense or convenience or caprice may dictate.?[6] Here, the style requires a comma before and, in “pounds, shillings, and pence”; there, the style is “pounds, shillings and pence.” “Viz,” in Mr. A.’s office, is considered a contraction, and is printed “viz.”—with the period; in Mr. B.’s office, it is not a contraction, and the period is not used; in Mr. C.’s office, “viz” is put entirely under the ban, and compositors and proof-readers are directed to substitute for it the word “namely,” in all cases. As regards orthography, two styles—the Worcester and Webster—have, in almost all offices, alternate sway; and—which complicates matters still more—everywhere there is an “office style.” Each “rules a moment; chaos umpire sits,” etc.

Suppose half-a-dozen works going through the press at the same time, embracing three styles of orthography, and four or five styles in cap­i­tal­i­za­tion; one style which requires turned commas at the beginning only, of a quotation, and one which requires them at the beginning of every line of an extract,—you see at once that a proof-reader, so beset, must needs have his wits about him. For, notice, the first “slip” which comes to hand is in the “Life of {p62} John Smith”; this is in the Worcester style, and requires “traveller” and “jeweller” to be spelled each with two l’s, and “impanelled” with two l’s. The next galley-proof to be read is part of the “Life of James Smith”; this is in the Webster style; and now the reader must change front, and see to it that he spells “traveler” and “jeweler” with one l each, and “impaneled” with one l. Now as these works are in the same size of type, and are very similar in appearance, it would not be strange if now and then the styles were to “cross over”; but, observe, the third slip, the “Life of William Smith,” is “office style,” requiring “traveler” to be spelled with one l, and “jeweller” with two (very absurd, but all styles have something absurd and arbitrary in them), while “empanel” now repudiates an initial i. Further, the publishers of the “Life of John” desire to have it in uniform style with their “watch-pocket series,” in which names of ships were put between quotation-marks; the author of the “Life of James” insists, that, in his work, names of ships shall not be quoted, and shall be set in roman; the “Life of William,” being in office style, requires names of ships to be in italics.

Again, each of these works has, at the commencement of its several chapters, a cast of initial letter differing from the style of the other two,—the first a two-line plain letter, the second a black letter, the third an open-face letter; and still further (there is no “finally”), the “Life of John” has “backwards,” “forwards,” “towards,” all with the final s; and the proof-reader has just received from the outside reader {p63} of the “Life of James,” a sharp note, stating that he has stricken the s from “towards,” as many as ten times, and coolly assuring the said proof-reader that there is no such word as “towards” in the English language. Meanwhile, intermingled with the above readings, are four Sunday-school books, A, B, C, and D. A and B require the words “everything,” “anything,” and “cannot” to be divided respectively into two words,—“every thing,” “any thing,” “can not”; while C and D, with a general direction to follow Webster, want these words printed in the usual manner,—closed up. A and C must have two words of “’t is,” “it ’s,” “do n’t,” “could n’t,” “must n’t”; B and D require the same, with the exception of “don’t,” which must be made one word. A and D want an apostrophe in “won’t”; while B and C insist that the change from “will not” is so great, that “wont” is virtually a new word, wherefore they cannot conscientiously permit the apostrophe.

Among these literary foolishnesses and idle discriminations, are inter-readings of pamphlets on the leather trade; the Swamptown Directory, the copy being the pages of an old edition, pasted on broadsides of paper, half the names stricken out, and new ones inserted haphazard on the wide margin, their places in the text indicated by lines crossing and recrossing each other, and occasionally lost in a plexus or ganglion; reports of the Panjandrum Grand Slump Mining Company, the Glenmutchkin Railway Company, and the new and improved Brown Paper {p64} Roofing Company; Proceedings of the National Wool-Pulling Association, and of the Society for promoting the Introduction of Water-Gas for Culinary and Illuminating Purposes; likewise auction-bills, calendars, ball-cards, dunning-letters (some of these to be returned through the post-office, the proof-reader’s own feathers winging the shaft), glowing descriptions of Dyes, Blackings, Polishes, and Varnishes; in short, proofs of the endless variety of matters which constitute the daily pabulum of a book and job office,—and, in all these, style has its requirements.

If all this be borne in mind, it will not seem surprising, especially when we reflect that all individuals in their progress toward a perfect civilization are not yet within sight of their goal,—it will not seem surprising, if now and then an irate brother should rush into the proof-reader’s presence, exclaiming, “What do you mean, sir? I thought I knew something, but it appears I don’t! Here you have put ‘Hudson street’ with a little s, and ‘Hudson River’ with a capital R: what sort of work do you call that?” Should this occur, the schooled reader has but to reply, “That, my dear sir, is the uniform style of this office,—we always ‘put things’ as you have stated,” and the questioner is satisfied, and apologetically withdraws.

As no acknowledged literary Dictator has arisen since Johnson (if we except Webster), and as we have no good grounds to expect one, let us hope there may be a convention of the learned men of the United States, with full powers to legislate upon, and {p65} finally settle, all questions of syntax, orthography, punctuation, and style, and authorized to punish literary dissenters, by banishment from the Republic of Letters.

Were there a common and acknowledged authority to which printer, publisher, proof-reader, and author could appeal, the eye, the pen, and the press would be relieved of much useless labor, and the cost of books would be correspondingly reduced. The Smithsonian Institution would confer a lasting benefit on mankind by establishing a Board or Bureau of scholars, which should publish a dictionary of all English and Anglicized words, without various spellings, and also such other words as might meet the want long felt, and which was expressed in “The Spectator,” so long ago as Aug. 4, 1711,—where the author, having spoken of certain perplexities which beset writers, adds: “[These] will never be decided till we have something like an academy, that by the best authorities and rules drawn from the analogy of languages, shall settle all controversies between grammar and idiom.” When such works from the Smithsonian Institution shall have appeared, and Congress shall have adopted them as standards to which all Departmental work shall conform, the diversities of spelling will disappear from the publications of the Government. Those who would diffuse knowledge among men should have sharp oversight of the vehicle in which knowledge is to be conveyed,—to wit, LANGUAGE,—“the foundation for the whole faculty of thinking.”