But it is needless to pursue this alluring theme; the reader may turn to the text which follows this feeble preface so strenuously, and see for himself with what a _tour de force_ our ingenious author managed to evade what we now call good grammar. I have found more than one reason for transferring this curious copy to type with the utmost verbality, literality, and punctuality of which the compositor is capable. In the first place, it tickled my fancy so that I wished others to enjoy the same sensation—for is it not said that our joys are doubled by sharing them, as our sorrows are halved by the same process? Again, to prolong these pleasantries, I may say that I thought this would be a good way to show that awesome deference which I ought to feel for certain captious critics of former works with which my name is associated, whose green-eyed strabismus has seen me in the light of entirely too good an editor—that is to say, who have complimented me by their censure for making my authors too intelligible, too attractive, and altogether too readable, by the way I dressed them for the press. So I determined to submit the pure text of Fowler’s Journal to the discernment of competent critics of literary wares, as well as to the lack of that quality in fussy fault-finders, and let everybody see how some manuscript looks when it is printed just as it is written. I do not vaunt this specimen as unique in any respect except the handwriting, a sample of which is reproduced. The article is much like others of Fowler’s times and circumstances; it is only a little off the average syntax and orthography of that period, with a few more capitals and dashes than were then usual. I know authors of our own day whose copy would turn out a good deal like Fowler’s if the printer did not fix it up for them. They are mostly the ones who damn instead of blessing the artists of the art preservative of arts. Few women, for example, can spell quite like the dictionaries; fewer still can punctuate properly; and fewest of all persons of either sex in the world are those authors, even among professional literarians, who would like or could afford to see themselves set up in print exactly as they write themselves down. There is said to be a day coming when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed, the wicked shall tremble, and they shall say to the mountains, “fall on us”—or words to that effect. I cite the passage from early memory, not having the author in hand, and have not verified the quotation; but I will risk anything of that sort, provided the day never comes when the secrets of the printing office shall be revealed. I am at peace with my God, my neighbor, and myself; but—I am an author.