ment the reader, after due reflection, is brought to the conclusion that the lovers wait with patience (personified in Job) for the ultimate finale of their happiness."
Oddly enough, there are instances in which verbal errors have a trade value, inasmuch as they serve to identify first impressions of engravings or particular editions of books, as in the "Vinegar" and "Pearl" and other rare Bibles, already alluded to. Hogarth, the celebrated painter, appears to have been a little loose in his orthography, in which, by the way, he was not at all singular in his day. When he first published his print of the "March to Finchley," he dedicated it to George II.; but that royal booby took offence at the innocent satire, and would, had he dared, have visited the painter with his wrath. Hogarth made haste to obliterate the king's name, and insert that of the King of Prussia. In so doing he spelled Prussia with one s (Prusia), and worked off some fifty copies from the plate before the error was pointed out to him. Then he corrected it, and the marks of the correction are traceable on all the subsequent impressions. But the first impressions were of course the best, being taken before the plate was worn; they have been recognized as such ever since, and to this day an impression of that plate on which Prussia is wrongly spelled is worth in the market as much as half a dozen of the others, however excellent they may be.
Another instance, well known to bibliopoles, is that of Littleton's Latin Dictionary. When the doctor was printing this huge quarto, he was intensely bothered with the printers, and had to be constantly going to the office to superintend their work. One day, when he happened to be specially badgered, a compositor came to him as he was talking to the proprietor, and, thrusting a slip of copy under his nose, drew his attention to the word condono, to which no English word had been appended, asking at the same time how he should fill the blank. "Get away with you!" cried the doctor, in a pet; "condog you, be off!" The compositor went off, and coolly completed the line thus, "condono, v. a., to condog." This remarkable performance was never challenged by the readers of the proofs, but went to press without alteration. Ever since, that edition of the dictionary has been known among collectors as the "condog edition," and for a time bore an extra value, as it was sought after by the curious.
There was a time when correctness in printing was held in far higher estimation than it is at present. The Elzevirs, it is said, affixed their proof-sheets to the doors of the colleges and universities, and offered a golden premium for the discovery of an error, however trifling. Among the numerous attempts which have been made to print a perfect book, one instance, with which we will close this desultory paper, will suffice.
Nearly a hundred years ago, a number of the professors of the Edinburgh University attempted to publish a work which should be a perfect specimen of typographical accuracy. Every precaution was taken to secure the desired result. Six experienced proof-readers were employed, who devoted hours to the reading of each page; and after it was thought to be perfect, it was pasted up in the hall of the University, with a notification that a reward of two hundred and fifty dollars would be paid to any person who should discover an error. Each page was suffered to remain two weeks in the place where it had been pasted, before the work was printed. The Scotch professors congratulated themselves that they had attained the object for which they had been striving. When the book was issued, it was discovered that it contained several errors, one being in the title-page, and another in the first line of the opening chapter.
