One of these styles may be just as good as the other (see chapter on “Style”); but whichever were selected, should be strictly adhered to, through the whole book or work to which it was deemed applicable. Had the above paragraph been given to still a third reader, very likely he would have capitalized “Division,” as being of more consequence than a beat or a ward; another would have deemed “Precinct” worthy of being put up, while “beat” would have been placed in the small-letter obscurity of “wharf” and “alley.” Another would say that localities designated by a number should always be put up; as “Beat 6,” “Station A” (See closing remark and examples, under Rule 7). The words “street” and “avenue” are left down by both the above readers. The Atlantic Monthly puts those words up,—“The junction of Beacon Street and Brookline Avenue”; the Century magazine has “Canal street, its former upper boundary”; Harper’s Maga. speaks of “the old house in St. Louis Street in which,” etc. Each office makes its own style.

The word “city” in “Junction City” is put up,—the two words forming the city’s name. Whether to print “New York City” or “New York city” is a moot point,—at present a matter of style. Some insist that as ocean, sea, city, street, etc., are common nouns, they so remain when connected with a proper adjective, and should be put down,—and from this starting-point they have endeavored to frame a general, and at the same time practical, rule for cap­i­tal­iz­ing common nouns, which, when described by proper adjectives, form parts of individual names. But, judging from our experience in proof-reading, the endeavor has thus far been unsuccessful. The adjective, the {p187} dis­tin­guish­ing word, always begins with a capital; as in “Bristol county,” “Atlantic ocean.” The rule then, formulated, amounts to this: “Put the dis­tin­guish­ing word up, and the class name down.” But usage will not allow this; we must not write “Long island,” “James smith,”—wherefore the rule has this qualification: “If the dis­tin­guish­ing word alone does not clearly designate the object, both words must be put up.” This qualification virtually annuls the rule,—for different minds have different opinions as to whether the object is, or is not, “clearly designated.” Reader A writes “Poplar square,” while Reader B writes “Poplar Square.” Under the rule and qualification, mentioned above, we have set before us, as correct examples, “Hudson river, Red River”; as if the significance of such prefixes as “red, swift, narrow, deep,” could not be determined by the insertion or omission of the article a, of which we shall speak farther on,—but must be made by cap­i­tal­iz­ing “river.” But admitting that the cap­i­tal­iz­ing of “River” more clearly designates the object, we doubt whether any printer or reader would wittingly pass one “river” down, and another “River” up, in the same work; and the average writer and reader for the press can hardly be supposed to take much time to study whether a given river or city or square is just within or outside of the limit of “clear designation.” Among the proof-readers of a certain large work on geography, which seems to have been carefully read, there must have been some difference of opinion on this point; for it speaks of “the bay of Biscay” and “the Gulf of Mexico”; and the “Atlantic ocean” of Vol. 1, becomes the “Atlantic Ocean” of Vol. 2. And such discrepancies must appear in every work which is printed under {p188} the rule “Put the object down and the dis­tin­guish­ing word up—with exceptions,” unless the exceptions are mentioned individually, seriatim, and a list of the same given to all employees who are expected to set type and read proof under such rule.

The objection to putting the class name down, is not so much that the dis­tin­guish­ing word alone ever fails to “clearly designate the object,” as that usage in many instances, and a sense of personal dignity in others, prevent all family and many other class names from sinking into lower-case. It were—there being no usage in its favor—a shame to print “Andrew Jackson” with a little “j,” although the dis­tin­guish­ing word “Andrew” would clearly designate the individual intended. “We sailed past Long island” could not possibly be mistaken for “We sailed past a long island.” In conversation the mere omission of the article a would clearly indicate that we had a particular island in view, and what island it was, even if we were not to inform an interlocutor, that, were we to print our remark we should capitalize the “L,” and very possibly the “I.”

“We sailed on a red river,”—it may have been the Raritan, or any other river running among iron ore; or it may have been any one of the twelve streams of the United States which bear each the name “Red river”; the article a, as Murray observes, “determines the object spoken of to be one single thing of a kind, leaving it still uncertain which.” “It is,” says Murray further, “an excellence of the English language,” that, “by means of its two articles it does most precisely determine the extent of signification of common names.” By the omission of the article a, then, a particular river is “most precisely determined,”—and, in print, {p189} cap­i­tal­iz­ing the “R” of the adjective makes assurance doubly sure. But since long-established usage determines that “Long Island,” “Harper’s Ferry,” “Lake Ontario,” “George Washington,” etc., shall have both words put up, uniformity can be secured only by extending that mode of cap­i­tal­i­za­tion to all words in the same category—unless, as we have intimated, each exception be mentioned individually, so that every printer may “clearly designate” (so to speak) what is expected of him.

9. A word usually put down may be put up, or vice versa, by reason of propinquity to some other word which is in the opposite category as to cap­i­tal­i­za­tion.