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A Dutch Boy Fifty Years After

by Edward William Bok · English · Gutenberg #15930 · 397,757 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Dutch Boy Fifty Years After

Author: Edward William Bok

Editor: John Louis Haney


        
Release date: May 28, 2005 [eBook #15930]
                Most recently updated: December 14, 2020

Language: English

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A DUTCH BOY FIFTY YEARS AFTER

by

EDWARD BOK

Adapted from _The Americanization of Edward Bok_

Edited with an Introduction by John Louis Haney, Ph.D.
President, Central High School, Philadelphia

Charles Scribner's Sons
New York       Chicago       Boston
Atlanta        San Francisco

1921







[Frontispiece: Photograph of Edward Bok.]




TO

THE SCHOOLBOYS AND SCHOOLGIRLS OF AMERICA

I DEDICATE THIS STORY OF A BOY

WHO BELIEVED THAT AN OBSTACLE IS NOT SOMETHING

TO BE AFRAID OF

BUT IS ONLY A DIFFICULTY TO BE OVERCOME

AND WHO TOOK FOR HIS MOTTO

AS I HOPE EVERY ONE WHO READS THESE PAGES WILL DO

THESE LINES BY MADELINE S. BRIDGES:


  "Give to the world the best you have
  And the best will come back to you."




INTRODUCTION

In recent years American literature has been enriched by certain
autobiographies of men and women who had been born abroad, but who had
been brought to this country, where they grew up as loyal citizens of
our great nation.  Such assimilated Americans had to face not only the
usual conditions confronting a stranger in a strange land, but had to
develop within themselves the noble conception of Americanism that was
later to become for them a flaming gospel.  Andrew Carnegie, the canny
Scotch lad who began as a cotton weaver's assistant, became a steel
magnate and an eminent constructive philanthropist.  Jacob Riis, the
ambitious Dane, told in _The Making of an American_ the story of his
rise to prominence as a social and civic worker in New York.  Mary
Antin, who was brought from a Russian ghetto at the age of thirteen,
gave us in _The Promised Land_ a most impressive interpretation of
America's significance to the foreign-born.  The very title of her book
was a flash of inspiration.

To this group of notable autobiographies belongs _The Americanization
of Edward Bok_, which received, from Columbia University, the Joseph
Pulitzer Prize of one thousand dollars as "the best American biography
teaching patriotic and unselfish service to the Nation and at the same
time illustrating an eminent example."  The judges who framed that
decision could not have stated more aptly the scope and value of the
book.  It is the story of an unusual education, a conspicuous
achievement, and an ideal now in course of realization.

At the age of six Edward Bok was brought to America by his parents, who
had met with financial reverses in their native country of the
Netherlands.  He spent six years in the public schools of Brooklyn, but
even while getting the rudiments of a formal education he had to work
during his spare hours to bring home a few more dollars to aid his
needy family.  His first job was cleaning the show-window of a small
bakery for fifty cents a week.  At twelve he became an office boy in
the Western Union Telegraph Company; at nineteen he was a stenographer;
at twenty-six he became editor of _The Ladies' Home Journal_, which
during the thirty years of his supervision achieved the remarkable
circulation of two million copies and reached every month an audience
of perhaps ten million persons.  Such is the bare outline of a career
that has the essential characteristics of struggle and achievement, of
intimate contact with eminent men and women, and, most interesting of
all, is not a fulfilled career, but a life still in the making.

The significance of _The Americanization of Edward Bok_ is threefold
and is clearly indicated by the author's own conception of the three
periods that should constitute a well-rounded life..  These he
characterizes as education, achievement, and service for others.
Conceived in this ideal spirit, the autobiography has a message for
every American schoolboy or schoolgirl who is looking forward to the
years of achievement and who should be made to understand that there is
a finer duty beyond.  It has an equally important message for those of
us who in the turmoil of a busy world are struggling to achieve, in
many instances with no vision beyond the desire to provide as best we
can for the welfare of ourselves and our families.  Lastly, it has an
inspiring, constructive message for those who are now in a position to
render altruistic service and thus contribute their share toward making
the world in general and America in particular a better place in which
to live.

Because of the recognized value of Edward Bok's life-story, the present
abridged edition, which is re-named _A Dutch Boy Fifty Years After_,
has been undertaken.  The chapters here brought together, with the
approval of Mr. Bok, tell the story of the Dutch boy in the American
school, his earnest efforts to help his parents, his journalistic and
literary experiences, his wide-spread influence as editor, and a vision
of what he still hopes to accomplish for the land of his adoption.

Our boys and girls who become familiar with the story of this
resourceful Dutch lad should note that he is not ashamed to tell us he
helped his mother by building the fire, preparing the breakfast, and
washing the dishes before he went to school, and when he returned from
school he did not play but swept, scrubbed, and washed more dishes
after the evening meal.  He did not whine and mope because his parents
could no longer keep the retinue of servants to which they had been
accustomed in the Netherlands.  He simply pitched in and helped.  The
same spirit impelled him to clean the baker's windows for fifty cents a
week, to deliver a newspaper over a regular route, to sell ice water on
the Coney Island horse-cars--in short, to do any honorable work to
overcome the burden of poverty.  Meanwhile he strove to acquire what
little education he could, but he probably learned more from his
association with the prominent persons whom he met as a result of his
early passion for autograph collecting.  Such a boyhood brings home the
important truth that necessity is the mother of self-reliance.

Mr. Bok's story indicates the road to success and gives encouragement
to those who would tread that pleasant way, but it also sounds a frank
warning against the pitfalls that beset ambitious youth.  When he was
sent by the city editor of the _Brooklyn Eagle_ to review a theatrical
performance and decided to write his review without going to the
theatre, he had, of course, no warning that the performance would not
take place.  He took what many a more experienced reporter would
consider a reasonable chance and he suffered keen humiliation when the
lesson was forced home that it does not pay to attempt deception.  He
tells us that the incident left a lasting impression and he felt
grateful because it happened so early in life that he could take the
experience to heart and profit by it.  With equal candor he tells of
the stock-market "tips" that resulted from his intimacy with Jay Gould.
Wisely he records that he resolved to keep out of Wall Street
thereafter, in spite of his initial success in speculation.  When he
gave up an association that probably would have led to his becoming a
stock-broker, and somewhat later, when he declined an offer to be the
business manager for a popular American actress, Edward Bok was called
upon to make fateful decisions.  In this story he lays ample stress
upon the need for careful and deliberate consideration at such crucial
moments.

The account of his long and successful editorship of _The Ladies' Home
Journal_ reveals the extent of his influence on American social and
domestic conditions.  He broadened the scope of _The Journal_ until it
touched the life of the nation at many points.  The earlier women's
magazines had devoted most attention to fashions, needle-work, and
cookery, printing a few sentimental stories and poems to give the
necessary literary atmosphere.  _The Ladies' Home Journal_ took up a
great variety of problems concerning the American home and those who
dwelled therein.  A corps of editors was assembled to conduct
departments and to answer questions either by mail or in the pages of
_The Journal_.  Free scholarships in colleges and in musical
conservatories were given in place of the usual magazine premiums.
Series of articles were published to foster our national appreciation
for better architecture, better furniture, better pictures--in brief,
for better homes in every respect.

Mr. Bok discouraged the taking of patent medicines, the wearing of
aigrettes, the use of the public drinking-cup, the disfiguring of
American scenery with glaring signs and bill-posting, the use of
fireworks on the Fourth of July, and many similar matters that were not
to our credit or advantage.  He printed convincing photographs taken in
various "dirty cities" that tolerated refuse and other evidences of
untidiness on their streets and literally shamed those communities into
cleaning up the plague-spots.  Had he been a commonplace editor with
his main thought on the subscription list he would have avoided
controversy by confining his leading articles to subjects unlikely to
offend any one, but he would not pursue any policy that meant a
surrender of his ideals.  When occasion demanded he did not hesitate to
hit squarely from the shoulder.  Whether the public agreed with him or
not, it knew that _The Journal_ was very much in earnest whenever it
espoused any cause.

Mr. Bok's last important service as editor of _The Journal_ was a
direct outcome of our participation in the Great War.  The problems
raised by that world cataclysm called for a restatement of American
ideals and aspirations.  He therefore arranged for a number of articles
adapted to the needs of every community, whether large or small, and
these were soon acclaimed as the most comprehensive exposition of
practical Americanization that had yet been published.  As a
far-sighted editor with a long experience behind him he knew that many
of the immigrants coming to this country were ready to enjoy our
privileges without undertaking to share our responsibilities.  The
newcomer could realize a freedom unknown in Europe, he had a chance to
achieve higher standards of living and to establish a better home for
himself and his family; what were we asking in return?  We did not
subject him to a political confession of faith and we did not fix his
social caste; were we justified in asking him to accept our language
and to uphold our institutions?  The intelligent immigrant knows that
the culture of America is a transplanted European culture, but he
quickly realizes that it has become something distinctive because it
developed under conditions where social barriers or racial jealousies
are of slight importance.  The person who grasps this truth, as did
Edward Bok, knows well that America stands ready to accept any man,
whether native-born or alien, at his true worth and will give him
unequalled opportunity to make the most of his abilities.

In accomplishing his Americanization, Mr. Bok learned much from us and
he has given his fellow-Americans a chance to learn something from him.
He is aware of our pride in what we have achieved, but he points the
way to still greater triumphs in the years to come.  He urges us to
give more regard to thrift, to be more painstaking and thorough in what
we do, and finally, to overcome our prevalent lack of respect for
authority.  Such advice is especially appropriate at this time.  During
the present critical period in the wake of the greatest and most
destructive of all wars, a prudent nation will follow the fundamental
political and economic virtues.  It is no time for extravagance, for
slipshod service, or for defiance of established law.  Our young people
need every incentive to make the most of their talents and of their
opportunities.  If they observe closely the successive steps of Mr.
Bok's career they will understand why he did not continue to wash
shop-windows all his life or why the Western Union's office-boy did not
grow up to be a mere clerk or local manager.  In the important chapters
entitled "The Chances for Success" and "What I Owe to America" they
will learn that ambition and industry must be supplemented by other
admirable qualities in the loyal American who is eager to serve his
country to the utmost.

The concluding chapters of the autobiography have a most valuable
lesson for every American, young or old.  In them Mr. Bok calls upon us
to give a helping hand to the other fellow and to accept in more
genuine spirit the gospel of the brotherhood of man.  The civic pride
that urged him to join in the movement to beautify his home community
of Merion and that caused his activity in the raising of an endowment
fund of almost two million dollars for the Philadelphia Orchestra is
what we would expect of the idealist who sets out to observe the wise
precept of his Dutch grandparents: "Make you the world a bit more
beautiful and better because you have been in it."

Throughout the book the observant reader will note the author's pride
in his Dutch ancestry and his consciousness of the fact that he owes so
much to the splendid qualities of his forbears.  Such pride may be
shared by every other progressive American of foreign birth or
parentage who feels that he is bringing into our social and industrial
life certain commendable traits that characterize the best sons and
daughters of his fatherland, whatever that fatherland may be.

The admirable dedication that Mr. Bok has prepared for this little
volume is addressed to American schoolboys and schoolgirls, but its
message is just as vital for the older reader.  In the prime of life
and on the threshold of his Third Period, Mr. Bok has begun to give
practical demonstration of the kind of service that is possible for
those who are sincerely ready to serve.  He is alive to the fact that
as a nation we are still young and eager to learn.  We have made
serious mistakes in the past and our institutions are as yet far from
perfect, but with more of our intellectual leaders accepting the
watchword of altruistic service in the spirit of Mr. Bok's conception,
there can be virtually no limitations to the part that America seems
destined to play in the future.

JOHN L. HANEY


CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL

PHILADELPHIA




CONTENTS


EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION

AN INTRODUCTION OF TWO PERSONS

CHAPTER

     I.  THE FIRST DAYS IN AMERICA

    II.  THE FIRST JOB: FIFTY CENTS A WEEK

   III.  THE HUNGER FOR SELF-EDUCATION

    IV.  A PRESIDENTIAL FRIEND AND A BOSTON PILGRIMAGE

     V.  GOING TO THE THEATRE WITH LONGFELLOW

    VI.  PHILLIPS BROOKS'S BOOKS AND EMERSON'S MENTAL MIST

   VII.  A PLUNGE INTO WALL STREET

  VIII.  STARTING A NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE

    IX.  THE FIRST "WOMAN'S PAGE," "LITERARY LEAVES,"
         AND ENTERING SCRIBNER'S

     X.  THE CHANCES FOR SUCCESS

    XI.  LAST YEARS IN NEW YORK

   XII.  SUCCESSFUL EDITORSHIP

  XIII.  BUILDING UP A MAGAZINE

   XIV.  MEETING A REVERSE OR TWO

    XV.  ADVENTURES IN ART AND IN CIVICS

   XVI.  THEODORE ROOSEVELT'S INFLUENCE

  XVII.  THE PRESIDENT AND THE BOY

 XVIII.  ADVENTURES IN MUSIC

   XIX.  A WAR MAGAZINE AND WAR ACTIVITIES

    XX.  THE THIRD PERIOD

   XXI.  WHERE AMERICA FELL SHORT WITH ME

  XXII.  WHAT I OWE TO AMERICA

EDWARD WILLIAM BOK: BIOGRAPHICAL DATA

THE EXPRESSION OF A PERSONAL PLEASURE




ILLUSTRATIONS


Edward W. Bok . . . Frontispiece

Edward Bok at the age of six

Edward Bok's birthplace at Helder, Netherlands

The grandmother

The Dutch grandfather [Transcriber's note: missing from book]

Where Edward Bok is happiest: in his garden




AN INTRODUCTION OF TWO PERSONS


IN WHOSE LIVES ARE FOUND THE SOURCE AND MAINSPRING OF SOME OF THE
EFFORTS OF THE AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK IN HIS LATER YEARS


Along an island in the North Sea, five miles from the Dutch coast,
stretches a dangerous ledge of rocks that has proved the graveyard of
many a vessel sailing that turbulent sea.  On this island once lived a
group of men who, as each vessel was wrecked, looted the vessel and
murdered those of the crew who reached shore.  The government of the
Netherlands decided to exterminate the island pirates, and for the job
King William selected a young lawyer at The Hague.

"I want you to clean up that island," was the royal order.  It was a
formidable job for a young man of twenty-odd years.  By royal
proclamation he was made mayor of the island, and within a year, a
court of law being established, the young attorney was appointed judge;
and in that dual capacity he "cleaned up" the island.

The young man now decided to settle on the island, and began to look
around for a home.  It was a grim place, barren of tree or living green
of any kind; it was as if a man had been exiled to Siberia.  Still,
argued the young mayor, an ugly place is ugly only because it is not
beautiful.  And beautiful he determined this island should be.

One day the young mayor-judge called together his council.  "We must
have trees," he said; "we can make this island a spot of beauty if we
will!"  But the practical seafaring men demurred; the little money they
had was needed for matters far more urgent than trees.

"Very well," was the mayor's decision--and little they guessed what the
words were destined to mean--"I will do it myself."  And that year he
planted one hundred trees, the first the island had ever seen.

"Too cold," said the islanders; "the severe north winds and storms will
kill them all."

"Then I will plant more," said the unperturbed mayor.  And for the
fifty years that he lived on the island he did so.  He planted trees
each year; and, moreover, he had deeded to the island government land
which he turned into public squares and parks, and where each spring he
set out shrubs and plants.

Moistened by the salt mist the trees did not wither, but grew
prodigiously.  In all that expanse of turbulent sea--and only those who
have seen the North Sea in a storm know how turbulent it can be--there
had not been a foot of ground on which the birds, storm-driven across
the water-waste, could rest in their flight.  Hundreds of dead birds
often covered the surface of the sea.  Then one day the trees had grown
tall enough to look over the sea, and, spent and driven, the first
birds came and rested in their leafy shelter.  And others came and
found protection, and gave their gratitude vent in song.  Within a few
years so many birds had discovered the trees in this new island home
that they attracted the attention not only of the native islanders but
also of the people on the shore five miles distant, and the island
became famous as the home of the rarest and most beautiful birds.  So
grateful were the birds for their resting-place that they chose one end
of the island as a special spot for the laying of their eggs and the
raising of their young, and they fairly peopled it.  It was not long
before ornithologists from various parts of the world came to
"Egg-land," as the farthermost point of the island came to be known, to
see the marvellous sight, not of thousands but of hundreds of thousands
of bird-eggs.

A pair of storm-driven nightingales had now found the island and mated
there; their wonderful notes thrilled even the souls of the natives;
and as dusk fell upon the seabound strip of land the women and children
would come to "the square" and listen to the evening notes of the birds
of golden song.  The two nightingales soon grew into a colony, and
within a few years so rich was the island in its nightingales that over
to the Dutch coast and throughout the land and into other countries
spread the fame of "The Island of Nightingales."

Meantime, the young mayor-judge, grown to manhood, had kept on planting
trees each year, setting out his shrubbery and plants, until their
verdure now beautifully shaded the quaint, narrow lanes, and
transformed into wooded roads what once had been only barren wastes.
Artists began to hear of the place and brought their canvases, and on
the walls of hundreds of homes throughout the world hang to-day bits of
the beautiful lanes and wooded spots of "The Island of Nightingales."
The American artist, William M. Chase, took his pupils there almost
annually.  "In all the world to-day," he declared to his students, as
they exclaimed at the natural cool restfulness of the island, "there is
no more beautiful place."

The trees are now majestic in their height of forty or more feet, for
it is nearly a hundred years since the young attorney went to the
island and planted the first tree; to-day the churchyard where he lies
is a bower of cool green, with the trees that he planted dropping their
moisture on the lichen-covered stone on his grave.

This much did one man do.  But he did more.

After he had been on the barren island two years he went to the
mainland one day, and brought back with him a bride.  It was a bleak
place for a bridal home, but the young wife had the qualities of the
husband.  "While you raise your trees," she said, "I will raise our
children."  And within a score of years the young bride sent thirteen
happy-faced, well-brought-up children over that island, and there was
reared a home such as is given to few.  Said a man who subsequently
married a daughter of that home: "It was such a home that once you had
been in it you felt you must be of it, and that if you couldn't marry
one of the daughters you would have been glad to have married the cook."

One day when the children had grown to man's and woman's estate the
mother called them all together and said to them, "I want to tell you
the story of your father and of this island," and she told them the
simple story that is written here.

"And now," she said, "as you go out into the world I want each of you
to take with you the spirit of your father's work, and each, in your
own way and place, to do as he has done: make you the world a bit more
beautiful and better because you have been in it.  That is your
mother's message to you."

The first son to leave the island home went with a band of hardy men to
South Africa, where they settled and became known as "the Boers."
Tirelessly they worked at the colony until towns and cities sprang up
and a new nation came into being: The Transvaal Republic.  The son
became secretary of state of the new country, and to-day the United
States of South Africa bears tribute, in part, to the mother's message
to "make the world a bit more beautiful and better."

The second son left home for the Dutch mainland, where he took charge
of a small parish; and when he had finished his work he was mourned by
king and peasant as one of the leading clergymen of his time and people.

A third son, scorning his own safety, plunged into the boiling surf on
one of those nights of terror so common to that coast, rescued a
half-dead sailor, carried him to his father's house, and brought him
back to a life of usefulness that gave the world a record of
imperishable value.  For the half-drowned sailor was Heinrich
Schliemann, the famous explorer of the dead cities of Troy.

The first daughter now left the island nest; to her inspiration her
husband owed, at his life's close, a shelf of works in philosophy which
to-day are among the standard books of their class.

The second daughter worked beside her husband until she brought him to
be regarded as one of the ablest preachers of his land, speaking for
more than forty years the message of man's betterment.

To another son it was given to sit wisely in the councils of his land;
another followed the footsteps of his father.  Another daughter,
refusing marriage for duty, ministered unto and made a home for one
whose eyes could see not.

So they went out into the world, the girls and boys of that island
home, each carrying the story of their father's simple but beautiful
work and the remembrance of their mother's message.  Not one from that
home but did well his or her work in the world; some greater, some
smaller, but each left behind the traces of a life well spent.

And, as all good work is immortal, so to-day all over the world goes on
the influence of this one man and one woman, whose life on that little
Dutch island changed its barren rocks to a bower of verdure, a home for
the birds and the song of the nightingale.  The grandchildren have gone
to the four corners of the globe, and are now the generation of
workers--some in the far East Indies; others in Africa; still others in
our own land of America.  But each has tried, according to the talents
given, to carry out the message of that day, to tell the story of the
grandfather's work; just as it is told here by the author of this book,
who, in the efforts of his later years, has tried to carry out, so far
as opportunity has come to him, the message of his grandmother:

"Make you the world a bit more beautiful and better because you have
been in it."


EDWARD W. BOK

MERION

PENNSYLVANIA

A DUTCH BOY FIFTY YEARS AFTER


CHAPTER I

THE FIRST DAYS IN AMERICA

The leviathan of the Atlantic Ocean, in 1870, was _The Queen_, and when
she was warped into her dock on September 20 of that year, she
discharged, among her passengers, a family of four from the Netherlands
who were to make an experiment of Americanization.

The father, a man bearing one of the most respected names in the
Netherlands, had acquired wealth and position for himself; unwise
investments, however, had swept away his fortune, and in preference to
a new start in his own land, he had decided to make the new beginning
in the United States, where a favorite brother-in-law had gone several
years before.  But that, never a simple matter for a man who has
reached forty-two, is particularly difficult for a foreigner in a
strange land.  This fact he and his wife were to find out.  The wife,
also carefully reared, had been accustomed to a scale of living which
she had now to abandon.  Her Americanization experiment was to compel
her, for the first time in her life, to become a housekeeper without
domestic help.  There were two boys: the elder, William, was eight and
a half years of age; the younger, in nineteen days from his
landing-date, was to celebrate his seventh birthday.

This younger boy was Edward William Bok.  He had, according to the
Dutch custom, two other names, but he had decided to leave those in the
Netherlands.  And the American public was, in later years, to omit for
him the "William."

Edward's first six days in the United States were spent in New York,
and then he was taken to Brooklyn, where he was destined to live for
nearly twenty years.

Thanks to the linguistic sense inherent in the Dutch, and to an
educational system that compels the study of languages, English was
already familiar to the father and mother.  But to the two sons, who
had barely learned the beginnings of their native tongue, the English
language was as a closed book.  It seemed a cruel decision of the
father to put his two boys into a public-school in Brooklyn, but he
argued that if they were to become Americans, the sooner they became
part of the life of the country and learned its language for
themselves, the better.  And so, without the ability to make known the
slightest want or to understand a single word, the morning after their
removal to Brooklyn, the two boys were taken by their father to a
public-school.

The American public-school teacher was less well equipped in those days
than she is to-day to meet the needs of two Dutch boys who could not
understand a word she said, and who could only wonder what it was all
about.  The brothers did not even have the comfort of each other's
company, for, graded by age, they were placed in separate classes.

Nor was the American boy of 1870 a whit less cruel than is the American
boy of 1920; and he was none the less loath to show that cruelty.  This
trait was evident at the first recess of the first day at school.  At
the dismissal, the brothers naturally sought each other, only to find
themselves surrounded by a group of tormentors who were delighted to
have such promising objects for their fun.  And of this opportunity
they made the most.  There was no form of petty cruelty boys' minds
could devise that was not inflicted upon the two helpless strangers.
Edward seemed to look particularly inviting, and nicknaming him
"Dutchy" they devoted themselves at each noon recess and after school
to inflicting their cruelties upon him.

Louis XIV may have been right when he said that "every new language
requires a new soul," but Edward Bok knew that while spoken languages
might differ, there is one language understood by boys the world over.
And with this language Edward decided to do some experimenting.  After
a few days at school, he cast his eyes over the group of his
tormentors, picked out one who seemed to him the ringleader, and before
the boy was aware of what had happened, Edward Bok was in the full
swing of his first real experiment with Americanization.  Of course the
American boy retaliated.  But the boy from the Netherlands had not been
born and brought up in the muscle-building air of the Dutch dikes for
nothing, and after a few moments he found himself looking down on his
tormentor and into the eyes of a crowd of very respectful boys and
giggling girls, who readily made a passageway for his brother and
himself when they indicated a desire to leave the schoolyard and go
home.

Edward now felt that his Americanization had begun; but, always
believing that a thing begun must be carried to a finish, he took, or
gave--it depends upon the point of view--two or three more lessons in
this particular phase of Americanization before he convinced these
American schoolboys that it might be best for them to call a halt upon
further excursions in torment.

At the best, they were difficult days at school for a boy of seven who
could not speak English.  Although the other children stopped teasing
Edward, they did not try to make the way easier for him.  America is
essentially a land of fair play, but it is not fair play for American
boys and girls to take advantage of a foreign child's unfamiliarity
with the language or our customs to annoy that child or to place
difficulties in his way.  When a foreign pupil with little knowledge of
the English language enters an American school the native-born boys and
girls in that school can accomplish a useful service in Americanization
by helping the newcomer, thus giving him a true idea of American
fairness at the start.  No doubt many American boys and girls gladly do
this little kindness for the young foreigner, but Edward Bok and his
brother suffered tortures at the hands of those who should have helped
them.

Fortunately the linguistic gift inherent in the Dutch race came to
Edward's rescue in his attempt to master the English language.  He soon
noted many points of similarity between English and his native tongue;
by changing a vowel here and there he could make a familiar Dutch word
into a correct English word.  As both languages had developed from the
old Frisian tongue, the conquest of English did not prove as difficult
as he had expected.  At all events, he set out to master it.

[Illustration:  Edward Bok at the age of six, upon his arrival in the
United States.]

Edward was now confronted by a three-cornered problem.  Like all
healthy boys of his age he was fond of play and eager to join the boys
of his neighborhood in their pastimes after school hours.  He also
wanted to help his mother, which meant the washing of dishes, cleaning
the rooms in which the family then lived, and running various errands
for the needed household supplies.  Then, too, he was not progressing
as rapidly as he wished with his school studies, and he felt that he
ought to do everything in his power to take advantage of his
opportunity to get an education.

Methodically he worked out a plan which made it possible to accomplish
all three objects.  He planned that on one afternoon he should go
directly home from school to help his mother, and as soon as he had
finished the necessary chores that would make her life easier he would
be free to go out and play for the rest of that afternoon.  On the
following day he would remain in school for an extra hour after the
class had been dismissed and would get the teacher's help on any
lessons that were not clear to him.  When that task had been
accomplished he would still have part of that afternoon left for play.
He broached his plan for work at home and study at school on alternate
afternoons to his mother and his teacher.  Both approved of the idea
and agreed that it had been well thought out.

Thus Edward Bok learned early in life the valuable lesson of a wise
management of time.  Instead of attempting to accomplish various
results in some haphazard fashion, he planned to do only one thing at a
time, yet his plan was so comprehensive that it provided for the
necessary housework, study, and play--the three things that he wanted
to do and felt he should do.

As his evenings were also devoted to various tasks and duties, this
young American-to-be, by using each bit of spare time for some useful
purpose, became early in life the busy person that he has remained to
the present day.  Of Edward Bok it may truly be said that he began to
work, and to work hard, almost from the day he set foot on American
soil.  He has since realized that this is not the best thing for a
young boy, who should have liberal time for play in his life.  Of
course, Edward made the most of the short period that remained each
afternoon after his household duties or his extra studies at school,
and when he played it was with the same vim and energy with which he
worked.  He had little choice in the matter, but he often regrets
to-day that he did not have more time in his boyhood for play.

Like most boys, Edward wanted a little money now and then for spending,
but his mother was not always able to spare the pennies that he
desired.  So he had to fall back on his own resources to earn small
sums by running errands for neighbors and in other ways familiar to
boys of his age.  One day he came across an Italian who was earning
money in a rather unusual way.  This Italian would collect the
bright-colored pictures that adorned the labels of fruit and vegetable
cans.  He would paste these pictures into a scrap-book and sell it to a
mother as a picture-book for her children.  Edward saw that the
Italian's idea smacked of originality and he asked the man where he got
his pictures.

"From the cans I find on lots and in ash-barrels," was the reply.

"If you had more pictures, you could make more books and so earn more
money, couldn't you?" asked Edward, as an idea struck him.

"Yes," answered the Italian.

"How much will you give me if I bring you a hundred pictures?" asked
Edward.

"A cent apiece," said the Italian.

"All right," agreed Edward.

The boy went to work at once, and in three days he had collected the
first hundred pictures, gave them to the Italian, and received his
first dollar.

"Now," said Edward, as he had visions of larger returns from his
efforts, "your books have pictures of only four or five kinds, like
apples, pears, tomatoes, and green peas.  How much will you give me for
pictures of special fruit which you haven't got, like apricots,
green-gages, and pineapples?"

"Two cents each," replied the Italian.

"No," bargained Edward.  "They're much harder to find than the others.
I'll get you some for three cents each."

"All right," said the vender, realizing that the boy was stating the
case correctly.

Edward had calculated that if he would search the vacant lots in back
of the homes of the well-to-do, where the servants followed the tidy
habit of throwing cans and refuse over the back fences, he would find
an assortment of canned-fruit labels different from those used by
persons of moderate means.  He made a visit to those places and found
the less familiar pictures just as he thought he would.  Thus he was
not only able to sell his labels to the Italian for three cents instead
of a cent apiece, but to give greater variety to the vender's
scrap-books.

In this manner Edward Bok learned to make the most of his opportunities
even during his earliest years in America.




CHAPTER II

THE FIRST JOB: FIFTY CENTS A WEEK

The elder Bok did not find his "lines cast in pleasant places" in the
United States.  He found himself, professionally, unable to adjust the
methods of his own land and of a lifetime to those of a new country.
As a result the fortunes of the transplanted family did not flourish,
and Edward soon saw his mother physically failing under burdens to
which her nature was not accustomed nor her hands trained.  Then he and
his brother decided to relieve their mother in the housework by rising
early in the morning, building the fire, preparing breakfast, and
washing the dishes before they went to school.  After school they gave
up their play hours, and swept and scrubbed, and helped their mother to
prepare the evening meal and wash the dishes afterward.  It was a
curious coincidence that it should fall upon Edward thus to get a
first-hand knowledge of woman's housework which was to stand him in
such practical stead in later years.

It was not easy for the parents to see their boys thus forced to do
work which only a short while before had been done by a retinue of
servants.  And the capstone of humiliation seemed to be when Edward and
his brother, after having for several mornings found no kindling wood
or coal to build the fire, decided to go out of evenings with a basket
and pick up what wood they could find in neighboring lots, and the bits
of coal spilled from the coal-bin of the grocery-store, or left on the
curbs before houses where coal had been delivered.  The mother
remonstrated with the boys, although in her heart she knew that the
necessity was upon them.  But Edward had been started upon his
Americanization career, and answered; "This is America, where one can
do anything if it is honest.  So long as we don't steal the wood or
coal, why shouldn't we get it?"  And, turning away, the saddened mother
said nothing.

But while the doing of these homely chores was very effective in
relieving the untrained and tired mother, it added little to the family
income.  Edward looked about and decided that the time had come for
him, young as he was, to begin some sort of wage-earning.  But how and
where?  The answer he found one afternoon when standing before the
shop-window of a baker in the neighborhood.  The owner of the bakery,
who had just placed in the window a series of trays filled with buns,
tarts, and pies, came outside to look at the display.  He found the
hungry boy wistfully regarding the tempting-looking wares.

"Look pretty good, don't they?" asked the baker.

"They would," answered the Dutch boy with his national passion for
cleanliness, "if your window were clean."

"That's so, too," mused the baker.  "Perhaps you'll clean it."

"I will," was the laconic reply.  And Edward Bok, there and then, got
his first job.  He went in, found a step-ladder, and put so much Dutch
energy into the cleaning of the large show-window that the baker
immediately arranged with him to clean it every Tuesday and Friday
afternoon after school.  The salary was to be fifty cents per week!

But one day, after he had finished cleaning the window, and the baker
was busy in the rear of the store, a customer came in, and Edward
ventured to wait on her.  Dexterously he wrapped up for another the
fragrant currant-buns for which his young soul--and stomach--so
hungered!  The baker watched him, saw how quickly and smilingly he
served the customer, and offered Edward an extra dollar per week if he
would come in afternoons and sell behind the counter.  He immediately
entered into the bargain with the understanding that, in addition to
his salary of a dollar and a half per week, he should each afternoon
carry home from the good things unsold a moderate something as a
present to his mother.  The baker agreed, and Edward promised to come
each afternoon except Saturday.

"Want to play ball, hey?" said the baker.

"Yes, I want to play ball," replied the boy, but he was not reserving
his Saturday afternoons for games, although, boy-like, that might be
his preference.

Edward now took on for each Saturday morning--when, of course, there
was no school--the delivery route of a weekly paper called the _South
Brooklyn Advocate_.  He had offered to deliver the entire neighborhood
edition of the paper for one dollar, thus increasing his earning
capacity to two dollars and a half per week.

Transportation, in those days in Brooklyn, was by horse-cars, and the
car-line on Smith Street nearest Edward's home ran to Coney Island.
Just around the corner where Edward lived the cars stopped to water the
horses on their long haul.  The boy noticed that the men jumped from
the open cars in summer, ran into the cigar-store before which the
watering-trough was placed, and got a drink of water from the
ice-cooler placed near the door.  But that was not so easily possible
for the women and the children, who were forced to take the long ride
without a drink.  It was this that he had in mind when he reserved his
Saturday afternoon to "play ball."

Here was an opening, and Edward decided to fill it.  He bought a
shining new pail, screwed three hooks on the edge from which he hung
three clean shimmering glasses, and one Saturday afternoon when a car
stopped the boy leaped on, tactfully asked the conductor if he did not
want a drink, and then proceeded to sell his water, cooled with ice, at
a cent a glass to the passengers.  A little experience showed that he
exhausted a pail with every two cars, and each pail netted him thirty
cents.  Of course Sunday was a most profitable day; and after going to
Sunday-school in the morning, he did a further Sabbath service for the
rest of the day by refreshing tired mothers and thirsty children on the
Coney Island cars--at a penny a glass!

But the profit of six dollars which Edward was now reaping in his newly
found "bonanza" on Saturday and Sunday afternoons became apparent to
other boys, and one Saturday the young ice-water boy found that he had
a competitor; then two and soon three.  Edward immediately met the
challenge; he squeezed half a dozen lemons into each pail of water,
added some sugar, tripled his charge, and continued his monopoly by
selling "Lemonade, three cents a glass."  Soon more passengers were
asking for lemonade than for plain drinking-water!

One evening Edward went to a party of young people, and his latent
journalistic sense whispered to him that his young hostess might like
to see her social affair in print.  He went home, wrote up the party,
being careful to include the name of every boy and girl present, and
next morning took the account to the city editor of the _Brooklyn
Eagle_, with the sage observation that every name mentioned in that
paragraph represented a buyer of the paper, who would like to see his
or her name in print, and that if the editor had enough of these
reports he might very advantageously strengthen the circulation of _The
Eagle_.  The editor was not slow to see the point, and offered Edward
three dollars a column for such reports.  On his way home, Edward
calculated how many parties he would have to attend a week to furnish a
column, and decided that he would organize a corps of private reporters
himself.  Forthwith, he saw every girl and boy he knew, got each to
promise to write for him an account of each party he or she attended or
gave, and laid great stress on a full recital of names.  Within a few
weeks, Edward was turning in to _The Eagle_ from two to three columns a
week; his pay was raised to four dollars a column; the editor was
pleased in having started a department that no other paper carried, and
the "among those present" at the parties all bought the paper and were
immensely gratified to see their names.

So everybody was happy, and Edward Bok, as a full-fledged reporter, had
begun his journalistic career.

It is curious how deeply embedded in his nature, even in his earliest
years, was the inclination toward the publishing business.  The word
"curious" is used here because Edward is the first journalist in the
Bok family in all the centuries through which it extends in Dutch
history.  On his father's side, there was a succession of jurists.  On
the mother's side, not a journalist is visible.

Edward attended the Sunday-school of the Carroll Park Methodist
Episcopal Church, in Brooklyn, of which a Mr. Elkins was
superintendent.  One day he learned that Mr. Elkins was associated with
the publishing house of Harper and Brothers.  Edward had heard his
father speak of _Harper's Weekly_ and of the great part it had played
in the Civil War; his father also brought home an occasional copy of
_Harper's Weekly_ and of _Harper's Magazine_.  He had seen _Harper's
Young People_; the name of Harper and Brothers was on some of his
school-books; and he pictured in his mind how wonderful it must be for
a man to be associated with publishers of periodicals that other people
read, and books that other folks studied.  The Sunday-school
superintendent henceforth became a figure of importance in Edward's
eyes; many a morning the boy hastened from home long before the hour
for school, and seated himself on the steps of the Elkins house under
the pretext of waiting for Mr. Elkins's son to go to school, but really
for the secret purpose of seeing Mr. Elkins set forth to engage in the
momentous business of making books and periodicals.  Edward would look
after the superintendent's form until it was lost to view; then, with a
sigh, he would go to school, forgetting all about the Elkins boy whom
he had told the father he had come to call for!

But what with helping his mother, tending the baker's shop in
after-school hours, serving his paper route, plying his street-car
trade, and acting as social reporter, it soon became evident to Edward
that he had not much time to prepare his school lessons.  By a supreme
effort, he managed to hold his own in his class, but no more.
Instinctively, he felt that he was not getting all that he might from
his educational opportunities, yet the need for him to add to the
family income was, if anything, becoming greater.  The idea of leaving
school was broached to his mother, but she rebelled.  She told the boy
that he was earning something now and helping much.  Perhaps the tide
with the father would turn and he would find the place to which his
unquestioned talents entitled him.  Finally the father did.  He
associated himself with the Western Union Telegraph Company as
translator, a position for which his easy command of languages
admirably fitted him.  Thus, for a time, the strain upon the family
exchequer was lessened.

But the American spirit of initiative had entered deep into the soul of
Edward Bok.  The brother had left school a year before, and found a
place as messenger in a lawyer's office; and when one evening Edward
heard his father say that the office boy in his department had left, he
asked that he be allowed to leave school, apply for the open position,
and get the rest of his education in the great world itself.  It was
not easy for the parents to see the younger son leave school at so
early an age, but the earnestness of the boy prevailed.

And so, at the age of twelve, Edward Bok left school, and on Monday,
August 7, 1876, he became office boy in the electricians' department of
the Western Union Telegraph Company at six dollars and twenty-five
cents per week.

And, as such things will fall out in this curiously strange world, it
happened that as Edward drew up his chair for the first time to his
desk to begin his work on that Monday morning, there had been born in
Boston, exactly twelve hours before, a girl-baby who was destined to
become his wife.  Thus at the earliest possible moment after her birth,
Edward Bok started to work for her!




CHAPTER III

THE HUNGER FOR SELF-EDUCATION

With school-days ended, the question of self-education became an
absorbing thought with Edward Bok.  He had mastered a schoolboy's
English, but six years of public-school education was hardly a basis on
which to build the work of a lifetime.  He saw each day in his duties
as office boy some of the foremost men of the time.  It was the period
of William H. Vanderbilt's ascendancy in Western Union control; and the
railroad millionnaire and his companions were objects of great interest
to the young office boy.  Alexander Graham Bell and Thomas A. Edison
were also constant visitors to the department.  He knew that some of
these men, too, had been deprived of the advantage of collegiate
training, and yet they had risen to the top.  But how?  The boy decided
to read about these men and others, and find out.  He could not,
however, afford the separate biographies, so he went to the libraries
to find a compendium that would authoritatively tell him of all
successful men.  He found it in Appleton's _Encyclopaedia_, and,
determining to have only the best, he saved his luncheon money, walked
instead of riding the five miles to his Brooklyn home, and, after a
period of saving, had his reward in the first purchase from his own
earnings: a set of the _Encyclopaedia_.  He now read about all the
successful men, and was encouraged to find that in many cases their
beginnings had been as modest as his own, and their opportunities of
education as limited.

One day it occurred to him to test the accuracy of the biographies he
was reading.  James A. Garfield was then spoken of for the presidency;
Edward wondered whether it was true that the man who was likely to be
President of the United States had once been a boy on the tow-path, and
with a simple directness characteristic of his Dutch training, wrote to
General Garfield, asking whether the boyhood episode was true, and
explaining why he asked.  Of course any public man, no matter how large
his correspondence, is pleased to receive an earnest letter from an
information-seeking boy.  General Garfield answered warmly and fully.
Edward showed the letter to his father, who told the boy that it was
valuable and he should keep it.  This was a new idea.  He followed it
further; if one such letter was valuable, how much more valuable would
be a hundred!  If General Garfield answered him, would not other famous
men?  Why not begin a collection of autograph letters?  Everybody
collected something.

Edward had collected postage-stamps, and the hobby had, incidentally,
helped him wonderfully in his study of geography.  Why should not
autograph letters from famous persons be of equal service in his
struggle for self-education?  Not simple autographs--they were
meaningless; but actual letters which might tell him something useful.
It never occurred to the boy that these men might not answer him.

So he took his _Encyclopaedia_--its trustworthiness now established in
his mind by General Garfield's letter---and began to study the lives of
successful men and women.  Then, with boyish frankness, he wrote on
some mooted question in one famous person's life; he asked about the
date of some important event in another's, not given in the
_Encyclopaedia_; or he asked one man why he did this or why some other
man did that.

Most interesting were, of course, the replies.  Thus General Grant
sketched on an improvised map the exact spot where General Lee
surrendered to him; Longfellow told him how he came to write
"Excelsior"; Whittier told the story of "The Barefoot Boy"; Tennyson
wrote out a stanza or two of "The Brook," upon condition that Edward
would not again use the word "awful," which the poet said "is slang for
'very,'" and "I hate slang."

One day the boy received a letter from the Confederate general, Jubal
A. Early, giving the real reason why he burned Chambersburg.  A friend
visiting Edward's father, happening to see the letter, recognized in it
a hitherto-missing bit of history, and suggested that it be published
in the _New York Tribune_.  The letter attracted wide attention and
provoked national discussion.

This suggested to the editor of _The Tribune_ that Edward might have
other equally interesting letters; so he despatched a reporter to the
boy's home.  This reporter was Ripley Hitchcock, who afterward became
literary adviser for the Appletons and Harpers.  Of course Hitchcock at
once saw a "story" in the boy's letters, and within a few days _The
Tribune_ appeared with a long article on its principal news page giving
an account of the Brooklyn boy's remarkable letters and how he had
secured them.  The _Brooklyn Eagle_ quickly followed with a request for
an interview; the _Boston Globe_ followed suit; the _Philadelphia
Public Ledger_ sent its New York correspondent; and before Edward was
aware of it, newspapers in different parts of the country were writing
about "the well-known Brooklyn autograph collector."

Edward Bok was quick to see the value of the publicity which had so
suddenly come to him.  He received letters from other autograph
collectors all over the country who sought to "exchange" with him.
References began to creep into letters from famous persons to whom he
had written, saying they had read about his wonderful collection and
were proud to be included in it.  George W. Childs, of Philadelphia,
himself the possessor of probably one of the finest collections of
autograph letters in the country, asked Edward to come to Philadelphia
and bring his collection with him--which he did, on the following
Sunday, and brought it back greatly enriched.

Several of the writers felt an interest in a boy who frankly told them
that he wanted to educate himself, and asked Edward to come and see
them.  Accordingly, when they lived in New York or Brooklyn, or came to
these cities on a visit, he was quick to avail himself of their
invitations.  He began to note each day in the newspapers the
"distinguished arrivals" at the New York hotels; and when any one with
whom he had corresponded arrived, Edward would, after business hours,
go up-town, pay his respects, and thank him in person for his letters.
No person was too high for Edward's boyish approach; President
Garfield, General Grant, General Sherman, President Hayes--all were
called upon, and all received the boy graciously and were interested in
the problem of his self-education.  It was a veritable case of making
friends on every hand; friends who were to be of the greatest help and
value to the boy in his after-years, although he had no conception of
it at the time.

The Fifth Avenue Hotel, in those days the stopping-place of the
majority of the famous men and women visiting New York, represented to
the young boy who came to see these celebrities the very pinnacle of
opulence.  Often while waiting to be received by some dignitary, he
wondered how one could acquire enough means to live at a place of such
luxury.  The main dining-room, to the boy's mind, was an object of
special interest.  He would purposely sneak up-stairs and sit on one of
the soft sofas in the foyer simply to see the well-dressed diners go in
and come out.  Edward would speculate on whether the time would ever
come when he could dine in that wonderful room just once!

One evening he called, after the close of business, upon General and
Mrs. Grant, whom he had met before, and who had expressed a desire to
see his collection.  It can readily be imagined what a red-letter day
it made in the boy's life to have General Grant say: "It might be
better for us all to go down to dinner first and see the collection
afterward."  Edward had purposely killed time between five and seven
o'clock, thinking that the general's dinner-hour, like his own, was at
six.  He had allowed an hour for the general to eat his dinner, only to
find that he was still to begin it.  The boy could hardly believe his
ears, and unable to find his voice, he failed to apologize for his
modest suit or his general after-business appearance.

As in a dream he went down in the elevator with his host and hostess,
and when the party of three faced toward the dining-room entrance, so
familiar to the boy, he felt as if his legs must give way under him.
There have since been other red-letter days in Edward Bok's life, but
the moment that still stands out pre-eminent is that when two colored
head waiters at the dining-room entrance, whom he had so often watched,
bowed low and escorted the party to their table.  At last he was in
that sumptuous dining-hall.  The entire room took on the picture of one
great eye, and that eye centred on the party of three--as, in fact, it
naturally would.  But Edward felt that the eye was on him, wondering
why he should be there.

What he ate and what he said he does not recall.  General Grant, not a
voluble talker himself, gently drew the boy out, and Mrs. Grant
seconded him, until toward the close of the dinner he heard himself
talking.  He remembers that he heard his voice, but what that voice
said is all dim to him.  One act stamped itself on his mind.  The
dinner ended with a wonderful dish of nuts and raisins, and just before
the party rose from the table Mrs. Grant asked the waiter to bring her
a paper bag.  Into this she emptied the entire dish, and at the close
of the evening she gave it to Edward "to eat on the way home."  It was
a wonderful evening, afterward up-stairs, General Grant smoking the
inevitable cigar, and telling stories as he read the letters of
different celebrities.  Over those of Confederate generals he grew
reminiscent; and when he came to a letter from General Sherman, Edward
remembers that he chuckled audibly, reread it, and then turning to Mrs.
Grant, said:

"Julia, listen to this from Sherman.  Not bad."  The letter he read was
this:


DEAR MR. BOK:--

I prefer not to make scraps of sentimental writing.  When I write
anything I want it to be real and connected in form, as, for instance,
in your quotation from Lord Lytton's play of "Richelieu," "The pen is
mightier than the sword."  Lord Lytton would never have put his
signature to so naked a sentiment.  Surely I will not.

In the text there was a prefix or qualification:

  Beneath the rule of men entirely great
  The pen is mightier than the sword.

Now, this world does not often present the condition of facts herein
described.  Men entirely great are very rare indeed, and even
Washington, who approached greatness as near as any mortal, found good
use for the sword and the pen, each in its proper sphere.

You and I have seen the day when a great and good man ruled this
country (Lincoln) who wielded a powerful and prolific pen, and yet had
to call to his assistance a million of flaming swords.

No, I cannot subscribe to your sentiment, "The pen is mightier than the
sword," which you ask me to write, because it is not true.

Rather, in the providence of God, there is a time for all things; a
time when the sword may cut the Gordian knot, and set free the
principles of right and justice, bound up in the meshes of hatred,
revenge, and tyranny, that the pens of mighty men like Clay, Webster,
Crittenden, and Lincoln were unable to disentangle.  Wishing you all
success, I am, with respect, your friend,         W. T. SHERMAN.


Mrs. Grant had asked Edward to send her a photograph of himself, and
after one had been taken, the boy took it to the Fifth Avenue Hotel,
intending to ask the clerk to send it to her room.  Instead, he met
General and Mrs. Grant just coming from the elevator, going out to
dinner.  The boy told them his errand, and said he would have the
photograph sent up-stairs.

"I am so sorry we are just going out to dinner," said Mrs. Grant, "for
the general had some excellent photographs just taken of himself, and
he signed one for you, and put it aside, intending to send it to you
when yours came."  Then, turning to the general, she said: "Ulysses,
send up for it.  We have a few moments."

"I'll go and get it.  I know just where it is," returned the general.
"Let me have yours," he said, turning to Edward.  "I am glad to
exchange photographs with you, boy."

To Edward's surprise, when the general returned he brought with him,
not a duplicate of the small _carte-de-visite_ size which he had given
the general--all that he could afford--but a large, full cabinet size.

"They make 'em too big," said the general, as he handed it to Edward.

But the boy didn't think so!

That evening was one that the boy was long to remember.  It suddenly
came to him that he had read a few days before of Mrs. Abraham
Lincoln's arrival in New York at Doctor Holbrook's sanitarium.  Thither
Edward went; and within half an hour from the time he had been talking
with General Grant he was sitting at the bedside of Mrs. Lincoln,
showing her the wonderful photograph just presented to him.  Edward saw
that the widow of the great Lincoln did not mentally respond to his
pleasure in his possession.  It was apparent even to the boy that
mental and physical illness had done their work with the frail frame.
But he had the memory, at least, of having got that close to the great
President.

The eventful evening, however, was not yet over.  Edward had boarded a
Broadway stage to take him to his Brooklyn home when, glancing at the
newspaper of a man sitting next to him, he saw the headline: "Jefferson
Davis arrives in New York."  He read enough to see that the Confederate
President was stopping at the Metropolitan Hotel, in lower Broadway,
and as he looked out of the stage-window the sign "Metropolitan Hotel"
stared him in the face.  In a moment he was out of the stage; he wrote
a little note, asked the clerk to send it to Mr. Davis, and within five
minutes was talking to the Confederate President and telling of his
remarkable evening.

Mr. Davis was keenly interested in the coincidence and in the boy
before him.  He asked about the famous collection, and promised to
secure for Edward a letter written by each member of the Confederate
Cabinet.  This he subsequently did.  Edward remained with Mr. Davis
until ten o'clock, and that evening brought about an interchange of
letters between the Brooklyn boy and Mr. Davis at Beauvoir,
Mississippi, that lasted until the latter passed away.

Edward was fast absorbing a tremendous quantity of biographical
information about the most famous men and women of his time, and he was
compiling a collection of autograph letters that the newspapers had
made famous throughout the country.  He was ruminating over his
possessions one day, and wondering to what practical use he could put
his collection; for while it was proving educative to a wonderful
degree, it was, after all, a hobby, and a hobby means expense.  His
autograph quest cost him stationery, postage, car-fare--all outgo.  But
it had brought him no income, save a rich mental revenue.  And the boy
and his family needed money.  He did not know, then, the value of a
background.

He was thinking along this line in a restaurant when a man sitting next
to him opened a box of cigarettes, and taking a picture out of it threw
it on the floor.  Edward picked it up, thinking it might be a
"prospect" for his collection of autograph letters.  It was the picture
of a well-known actress.  He then recalled an advertisement announcing
that this particular brand of cigarettes contained, in each package, a
lithographed portrait of some famous actor or actress, and that if the
purchaser would collect these he would, in the end, have a valuable
album of the greatest actors and actresses of the day.  Edward turned
the picture over, only to find a blank reverse side.  "All very well,"
he thought, "but what does a purchaser have, after all, in the end, but
a lot of pictures?  Why don't they use the back of each picture, and
tell what each did: a little biography?  Then it would be worth
keeping."  With his passion for self-education, the idea appealed very
strongly to him; and believing firmly that there were others possessed
of the same thirst, he set out the next day, in his luncheon hour, to
find out who made the picture.

At the office of the cigarette company he learned that the making of
the pictures was in the hands of the Knapp Lithographic Company.  The
following luncheon hour, Edward sought the offices of the company, and
explained his idea to Mr. Joseph P. Knapp, now the president of the
American Lithograph Company.

"I'll give you ten dollars apiece if you will write me a
one-hundred-word biography of one hundred famous Americans," was Mr.
Knapp's instant reply.  "Send me a list, and group them, as, for
instance: presidents and vice-presidents, famous soldiers, actors,
authors, etc."

"And thus," says Mr. Knapp, as he tells the tale today, "I gave Edward
Bok his first literary commission, and started him off on his literary
career."

And it is true.

But Edward soon found the Lithograph Company calling for "copy," and,
write as he might, he could not supply the biographies fast enough.
He, at last, completed the first hundred, and so instantaneous was
their success that Mr. Knapp called for a second hundred, and then for
a third.  Finding that one hand was not equal to the task, Edward
offered his brother five dollars for each biography; he made the same
offer to one or two journalists whom he knew and whose accuracy he
could trust; and he was speedily convinced that merely to edit
biographies written by others, at one-half the price paid to him, was
more profitable than to write himself.

So with five journalists working at top speed to supply the hungry
lithograph presses, Mr. Knapp was likewise responsible for Edward Bok's
first adventure as an editor.  It was commercial, if you will, but it
was a commercial editing that had a distinct educational value to a
large public.

The important point is that Edward Bok was being led more and more to
writing and to editorship.




CHAPTER IV

A PRESIDENTIAL FRIEND AND A BOSTON PILGRIMAGE

Edward Bok had not been office boy long before he realized that if he
learned shorthand he would stand a better chance for advancement.  So
he joined the Young Men's Christian Association in Brooklyn, and
entered the class in stenography.  But as this class met only twice a
week, Edward, impatient to learn the art of "pothooks" as quickly as
possible, supplemented this instruction by a course given on two other
evenings at moderate cost by a Brooklyn business college.  As the
system taught in both classes was the same, more rapid progress was
possible, and the two teachers were constantly surprised that he
acquired the art so much more quickly than the other students.

Before many weeks Edward could "stenograph" fairly well, and as the
typewriter had not then come into its own, he was ready to put his
knowledge to practical use.

An opportunity offered itself when the city editor of the _Brooklyn
Eagle_ asked him to report two speeches at a New England Society
dinner.  The speakers were to be President Hayes, General Grant,
General Sherman, Mr. Evarts, and General Sheridan.  Edward was to
report what General Grant and the President said, and was instructed to
give the President's speech verbatim.

At the close of the dinner, the reporters came in and Edward was seated
directly in front of the President.  In those days when a public dinner
included several kinds of wine, it was the custom to serve the
reporters with wine, and as the glasses were placed before Edward's
plate he realized that he had to make a decision then and there.  He
had, of course, constantly seen wine on his father's table, as is the
European custom, but the boy had never tasted it.  He decided he would
not begin then, when he needed a clear head.  So, in order to get more
room for his notebook, he asked the waiter to remove the glasses.

It was the first time he bad ever attempted to report a public address.
General Grant's remarks were few, as usual, and as he spoke slowly, he
gave the young reporter no trouble.  But alas for his stenographic
knowledge, when President Hayes began to speak!  Edward worked hard,
but the President was too rapid for him; he did not get the speech, and
he noticed that the reporters for the other papers fared no better.
Nothing daunted, however, after the speechmaking, Edward resolutely
sought the President, and as the latter turned to him, he told him his
plight, explained it was his first important "assignment," and asked if
he could possibly be given a copy of the speech so that he could "beat"
the other papers.

The President looked at him curiously for a moment, and then said: "Can
you wait a few minutes?"

Edward assured him that he could.

After fifteen minutes or so the President came up to where the boy was
waiting, and said abruptly:

"Tell me, my boy, why did you have the wine-glasses removed from your
place?"

Edward was completely taken aback at the question, but he explained his
resolution as well as he could.

"Did you make that decision this evening?" the President asked.

He had.

"What is your name?" the President next inquired.

He was told.

"And you live, where?"

Edward told him.

"Suppose you write your name and address on this card for me," said the
President, reaching for one of the placecards on the table.

The boy did so.

"Now, I am stopping with Mr. A. A. Low, on Columbia Heights.  Is that
in the direction of your home?"

It was.

"Suppose you go with me, then, in my carriage," said the President,
"and I will give you my speech."

Edward was not quite sure now whether he was on his head or his feet.

As he drove along with the President and his host, the President asked
the boy about himself, what he was doing, etc.  On arriving at Mr.
Low's house, the President went up-stairs, and in a few moments came
down with his speech in full, written in his own hand.  Edward assured
him he would copy it, and return the manuscript in the morning.

The President took out his watch.  It was then after midnight.  Musing
a moment, he said: "You say you are an office boy; what time must you
be at your office?"

"Half past eight, sir."

"Well, good night," he said, and then, as if it were a second thought:
"By the way, I can get another copy of the speech.  Just turn that in
as it is, if they can read it."

Afterward, Edward found out that, as a matter of fact, it was the
President's only copy.  Though the boy did not then appreciate this act
of consideration, his instinct fortunately led him to copy the speech
and leave the original at the President's stopping-place in the morning.

And for all his trouble, the young reporter was amply repaid by seeing
that _The Eagle_ was the only paper which had a verbatim report of the
President's speech.

But the day was not yet done!

That evening, upon reaching home, what was the boy's astonishment to
find the following note:


MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND:----

I have been telling Mrs. Hayes this morning of what you told me at the
dinner last evening, and she was very much interested.  She would like
to see you, and joins me in asking if you will call upon us this
evening at eight-thirty.

Very faithfully yours,

RUTHERFORD B. HAYES.


Edward had not risen to the possession of a suit of evening clothes,
and distinctly felt its lack for this occasion.  But, dressed in the
best he had, he set out, at eight o'clock, to call on the President of
the United States and his wife!

He had no sooner handed his card to the butler than that dignitary,
looking at it, announced: "The President and Mrs. Hayes are waiting for
you!"  The ring of those magic words still sounds in Edward's ears:
"The President and Mrs. Hayes are waiting for you!"--and he a boy of
sixteen!

Edward had not been in the room ten minutes before he was made to feel
as thoroughly at ease as if he were sitting in his own home before an
open fire with his father and mother.  Skilfully the President drew
from him the story of his youthful hopes and ambitions, and before the
boy knew it he was telling the President and his wife all about his
precious _Encyclopaedia_, his evening with General Grant, and his
efforts to become something more than an office boy.  No boy had ever
so gracious a listener before; no mother could have been more tenderly
motherly than the woman who sat opposite him and seemed so honestly
interested in all that he told.  Not for a moment during all those two
hours was he allowed to remember that his host and hostess were the
President of the United States and the first lady of the land!

That evening was the first of many thus spent as the years rolled by;
unexpected little courtesies came from the White House, and later from
"Spiegel Grove"; a constant and unflagging interest followed each
undertaking on which the boy embarked.  Opportunities were opened to
him; acquaintances were made possible; a letter came almost every month
until that last little note, late in 1892:


MY DEAR FRIEND:

I would write you more fully if I could.  You are always thoughtful and
kind.

Thankfully your friend,

RUTHERFORD B. HAYES.

Thanks--thanks for your steady friendship.


The simple act of turning down his wine-glasses had won for Edward Bok
two gracious friends.

The passion for autograph collecting was now leading Edward to read the
authors whom he read about.  He had become attached to the works of the
New England group: Longfellow, Holmes, and, particularly, of Emerson.
The philosophy of the Concord sage made a peculiarly strong appeal to
the young mind, and a small copy of Emerson's essays was always in
Edward's pocket on his long stage or horse-car rides to his office and
back.

He noticed that these New England authors rarely visited New York, or,
if they did, their presence was not heralded by the newspapers among
the "distinguished arrivals."  He had a great desire personally to meet
these writers; and, having saved a little money, he decided to take his
week's summer vacation in the winter, when he knew he should be more
likely to find the people of his quest at home, and to spend his
savings on a trip to Boston.  He had never been so far away from home,
so this trip was a momentous affair.

He arrived in Boston on Sunday evening; and the first thing he did was
to despatch a note, by messenger, to Doctor Oliver Wendell Holmes,
announcing the important fact that he was there, and what his errand
was, and asking whether he might come up and see Doctor Holmes any time
the next day.  Edward naïvely told him that he could come as early as
Doctor Holmes liked--by breakfast-time, he was assured, as Edward was
all alone!  Doctor Holmes's amusement at this ingenuous note may be
imagined.

Within the hour the messenger brought back this answer:


MY DEAR BOY:

I shall certainly look for you to-morrow morning at eight o'clock to
have a piece of pie with me.  That is real New England, you know.

Very cordially yours,

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.


Edward was there at eight o'clock.  Strictly speaking, he was there at
seven-thirty, and found the author already at his desk in that room
overlooking the Charles River.

"Well," was the cheery greeting, "you couldn't wait until eight for
your breakfast, could you?  Neither could I when I was a boy.  I used
to have my breakfast at seven," and then telling the boy all about his
boyhood, the cheery poet led him to the dining-room, and for the first
time he breakfasted away from home and ate pie--and that with "The
Autocrat" at his own breakfast-table!

A cosier time no boy could have had.  Just the two were there, and the
smiling face that looked out over the plates and cups gave the boy
courage to tell all that this trip was going to mean to him.

"And you have come on just to see us, have you?" chuckled the poet.
"Now, tell me, what good do you think you will get out of it?"

He was told what the idea was: that every successful man had something
to tell a boy, that would be likely to help him, and that Edward wanted
to see the men who had written the books that people enjoyed.  Doctor
Holmes could not conceal his amusement at all this.

When breakfast was finished, Doctor Holmes said: "Do you know that I am
a full-fledged carpenter?  No?  Well, I am.  Come into my
carpenter-shop."

And he led the way into a front-basement room where was a complete
carpenter's outfit.

"You know I am a doctor," he explained, "and this shop is my medicine.
I believe that every man must have a hobby that is as different from
his regular work as it is possible to be.  It is not good for a man to
work all the time at one thing.  So this is my hobby.  This is my
change.  I like to putter away at these things.  Every day I try to
come down here for an hour or so.  It rests me because it gives my mind
a complete change.  For, whether you believe it or not," he added with
his inimitable chuckle, "to make a poem and to make a chair are two
very different things.

"Now," he continued, "if you think you can learn something from me,
learn that and remember it when you are a man.  Don't keep always at
your business, whatever it may be.  It makes no difference how much you
like it.  The more you like it, the more dangerous it is.  When you
grow up you will understand what I mean by an 'outlet'--a hobby, that
is--in your life, and it must be so different from your regular work
that it will take your thoughts into an entirely different direction.
We doctors call it a safety-valve, and it is.  I would much rather,"
concluded the poet, "you would forget all that I have ever written than
that you should forget what I tell you about having a safety-valve."

"And now do you know," smilingly said the poet, "about the Charles
River here?" as they returned to his study and stood before the large
bay window.  "I love this river," he said.  "Yes, I love it," he
repeated; "love it in summer or in winter."  And then he was quiet for
a minute or so.

Edward asked him which of his poems were his favorites.

"Well," he said musingly, "I think 'The Chambered Nautilus' is my most
finished piece of work, and I suppose it is my favorite.  But there are
also 'The Voiceless,' 'My Aviary,' written at this window, 'The Battle
of Bunker Hill,' and 'Dorothy Q,' written to the portrait of my
great-grandmother which you see on the wall there.  All these I have a
liking for, and when I speak of the poems I like best there are two
others that ought to be included--'The Silent Melody' and 'The Last
Leaf.'  I think these are among my best."'

"What is the history of 'The Chambered Nautilus'?" Edward asked.

"It has none," came the reply, "it wrote itself.  So, too, did 'The
One-Hoss Shay.'  That was one of those random conceptions that gallop
through the brain, and that you catch by the bridle.  I caught it and
reined it.  That is all."

Just then a maid brought in a parcel, and as Doctor Holmes opened it on
his desk he smiled over at the boy and said:

"Well, I declare, if you haven't come just at the right time.  See
those little books?  Aren't they wee?" and he handed the boy a set of
three little books, six inches by four in size, beautifully bound in
half levant.  They were his "Autocrat" in one volume, and his
better-known poems in two volumes.

"This is a little fancy of mine," he said.  "My publishers, to please
me, have gotten out this tiny wee set.  And here," as he counted the
little sets, "they have sent me six sets.  Are they not exquisite
little things?" and he fondled them with loving glee.  "Lucky, too, for
me that they should happen to come now, for I have been wondering what
I could give you as a souvenir of your visit to me, and here it is,
sure enough!  My publishers must have guessed you were here and my mind
at the same time.  Now, if you would like it, you shall carry home one
of these little sets, and I'll just write a piece from one of my poems
and your name on the fly-leaf of each volume.  You say you like that
little verse:

  "'A few can touch the magic string.'

"Then I'll write those four lines in this volume."  And he did.

  "A few can touch the magic string,
    And noisy Fame is proud to win them,--
  Alas for those who never sing,
    But die with all their music in them!"
               OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

As each little volume went under the poet's pen Edward said, as his
heart swelled in gratitude:

"Doctor Holmes, you are a man of the rarest sort to be so good to a
boy."

The pen stopped, the poet looked out on the Charles a moment, and then,
turning to the boy with a little moisture in his eye, he said:

"No, my boy, I am not; but it does an old man's heart good to hear you
say it.  It means much to those on the down-hill side to be well
thought of by the young who are coming up."

As he wiped his gold pen, with its swan-quill holder, and laid it down,
he said:

"That's the pen with which I wrote 'Elsie Venner' and the 'Autocrat'
papers.  I try to take care of it."

"You say you are going from me over to see Longfellow?" he continued,
as he reached out once more for the pen.  "Well, then, would you mind
if I gave you a letter for him?  I have something to send him."

Sly but kindly old gentleman!  The "something" he had to send
Longfellow was Edward himself, although the boy did not see through the
subterfuge at that time.

"And now, if you are going, I'll walk along with you if you don't mind,
for I'm going down to Park Street to thank my publishers for these
little books, and that lies along your way to the Cambridge car."

As the two walked along Beacon Street, Doctor Holmes pointed out the
residences where lived people of interest, and when they reached the
Public Garden he said:

"You must come over in the spring some time, and see the tulips and
croci and hyacinths here.  They are so beautiful.

"Now, here is your car," he said as he hailed a coming horse-car.
"Before you go back you must come and see me and tell me all the people
you have seen, will you?  I should like to hear about them.  I may not
have more books coming in, but I might have a very good-looking
photograph of a very old-looking little man," he said as his eyes
twinkled.  "Give my love to Longfellow when you see him, and don't
forget to give him my letter, you know.  It is about a very important
matter."

And when the boy had ridden a mile or so with his fare in his hand he
held it out to the conductor, who grinned and said:

"That's all right.  Doctor Holmes paid me your fare, and I'm going to
keep that nickel if I lose my job for it."




CHAPTER V

GOING TO THE THEATRE WITH LONGFELLOW

When Edward Bok stood before the home of Longfellow, he realized that
he was to see the man around whose head the boy's youthful reading had
cast a sort of halo.  And when he saw the head itself he had a feeling
that he could see the halo.  No kindlier pair of eyes ever looked at a
boy, as, with a smile, "the white Mr. Longfellow," as Mr. Howells had
called him, held out his hand.

"I am very glad to see you, my boy," were his first words, and with
them he won the boy.  Edward smiled back at the poet, and immediately
the two were friends.

"I have been taking a walk this beautiful morning," he said next, "and
am a little late getting at my mail.  Suppose you come in and sit at my
desk with me, and we will see what the postman has brought.  He brings
me so many good things, you know."

"Now, here is a little girl," he said, as he sat down at the desk with
the boy beside him, "who wants my autograph and a 'sentiment.'  What
sentiment, I wonder, shall I send her?"

"Why not send her 'Let us, then, be up and doing'?" suggested the boy.
"That's what I should like if I were she."

"Should you, indeed?" said Longfellow.  "That is a good suggestion.
Now, suppose you recite it off to me, so that I shall not have to look
it up in my books, and I will write as you recite.  But slowly; you,
know I am an old man, and write slowly."

Edward thought it strange that Longfellow himself should not know his
own great words without looking them up.  But he recited the four
lines, so familiar to every schoolboy, and when the poet had finished
writing them, he said:

"Good!  I see you have a memory.  Now, suppose I copy these lines once
more for the little girl, and give you this copy?  Then you can say,
you know, that you dictated my own poetry to me."

Of course Edward was delighted, and Longfellow gave him the sheet on
which he had written:

  Let us, then, be up and doing,
    With a heart, for any fate;
  Still achieving, still pursuing,
    Learn to labor and to wait.
                          HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Then, as the fine head bent down to copy the lines once more, Edward
ventured to say to him;

"I should think it would keep you busy if you did this for every one
who asked you."

"Well," said the poet, "you see, I am not so busy a man as I was some
years ago, and I shouldn't like to disappoint a little girl, should
you?"

As he took up his letters again, he discovered five more requests for
his autograph.  At each one he reached into a drawer in his desk, took
a card, and wrote his name on it.

"There are a good many of these every day," said Longfellow, "but I
always like to do this little favor.  It is so little to do, to write
your name on a card; and if I didn't do it some boy or girl might be
looking, day by day, for the postman and be disappointed.  I only wish
I could write my name better for them.  You see how I break my letters?
That's because I never took pains with my writing when I was a boy.  I
don't think I should get a high mark for penmanship if I were at
school, do you?"

"I see you get letters from Europe," said the boy, as Longfellow opened
an envelope with a foreign stamp on it.

"Yes, from all over the world," said the poet.  Then, looking at the
boy quickly, he said: "Do you collect postage-stamps?"

Edward said he did.

"Well, I have some right here, then;" and going to a drawer in a desk
he took out a bundle of letters, and cut out the postage-stamps and
gave them to the boy.

"There's one from the Netherlands.  There's where I was born," Edward
ventured to say.

"In the Netherlands?  Then you are a real Dutchman.  Well!  Well!" he
said, laying down his pen.  "Can you read Dutch?"

The boy said he could.

"Then," said the poet, "you are just the boy I am looking for."  And
going to a bookcase behind him he brought out a book, and handing it to
the boy, he said, his eyes laughing: "Can you read that?"

"Yes, indeed," said Edward.  "These are your poems in Dutch."

"That's right," he said.  "Now, this is delightful.  I am so glad you
came.  I received this book last week, and although I have been in the
Netherlands, I cannot speak or read Dutch.  I wonder whether you would
read a poem to me and let me hear how it sounds."

So Edward took "The Old Clock on the Stairs," and read it to him.

The poet's face beamed with delight.  "That's beautiful," he said, and
then quickly added: "I mean the language, not the poem."

"Now," he went on, "I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll strike a
bargain.  We Yankees are great for bargains, you know.  If you will
read me 'The Village Blacksmith' you can sit in that chair there made
out of the wood of the old spreading chestnut-tree, and I'll take you
out and show you where the old shop stood.  Is that a bargain?"

Edward assured him it was.  He sat in the chair of wood and leather,
and read to the poet several of his own poems in a language in which,
when he wrote them, he never dreamed they would ever be printed.  He
was very quiet.  Finally he said: "It seems so odd, so very odd, to
hear something you know so well sound so strange."

"It's a great compliment, though, isn't it, sir?" asked the boy.

"Ye-es," said the poet slowly.  "Yes, yes," he added quickly.  "It is,
my boy, a very great compliment."

"Ah," he said, rousing himself, as a maid appeared, "that means
luncheon, or rather, it means dinner, for we have dinner in the old New
England fashion, in the middle of the day.  I am all alone to-day, and
you must keep me company, will you?  Then afterward we'll go and take a
walk, and I'll show you Cambridge.  It is such a beautiful old town,
even more beautiful, I sometimes think, when the leaves are off the
trees."

[Illustration: Edward Bok's birthplace at Helder, Netherlands.  In the
foreground is one of the typical Dutch canals; at the end of the garden
in the rear is one of the famous Dutch dykes and just beyond is the
North Sea.  The house now belongs to the Dutch Government.]

"Come," he said, "I'll take you up-stairs, and you can wash your hands
in the room where George Washington slept.  And comb your hair, too, if
you want to," he added; "only it isn't the same comb that he used."

To the boyish mind it was an historic breaking of bread, that midday
meal with Longfellow.

"Can you say grace in Dutch?" he asked, as they sat down; and the boy
did.

"Well," the poet declared, "I never expected to hear that at my table.
I like the sound of it."

Then while the boy told all that he knew about the Netherlands, the
poet told the boy all about his poems.  Edward said he liked "Hiawatha."

"So do I," he said.  "But I think I like 'Evangeline' better.  Still,
neither one is as good as it should be.  But those are the things you
see afterward so much better than you do at the time."

It was a great event for Edward when, with the poet nodding and smiling
to every boy and man he met, and lifting his hat to every woman and
little girl, he walked through the fine old streets of Cambridge with
Longfellow.  At one point of the walk they came to a theatrical
billboard announcing an attraction that evening at the Boston Theatre.
Skilfully the old poet drew out from Edward that sometimes he went to
the theatre with his parents.  As they returned to the gate of "Craigie
House" Edward said he thought he would go back to Boston.

"And what have you on hand for this evening?" asked Longfellow.

Edward told him he was going to his hotel to think over the day's
events.

The poet laughed and said:

"Now, listen to my plan.  Boston is strange to you.  Now we're going to
the theatre this evening, and my plan is that you come in now, have a
little supper with us, and then go with us to see the play.  It is a
funny play, and a good laugh will do you more good than to sit in a
hotel all by yourself.  Now, what do you think?"

Of course the boy thought as Longfellow did, and it was a very happy
boy that evening who, in full view of the large audience in the immense
theatre, sat in that box.  It was, as Longfellow had said, a play of
laughter, and just who laughed louder, the poet or the boy, neither
ever knew.

Between the acts there came into the box a man of courtly presence,
dignified and yet gently courteous.

"Ah!  Phillips," said the poet, "how are you?  You must know my young
friend here.  This is Wendell Phillips, my boy.  Here is a young man
who told me to-day that he was going to call on you and on Phillips
Brooks to-morrow.  Now you know him before he comes to you."

"I shall be glad to see you, my boy," said Mr. Phillips.  "And so you
are going to see Phillips Brooks?  Let me tell you something about
Brooks.  He has a great many books in his library which are full of his
marks and comments.  Now, when you go to see him you ask him to let you
see some of those books, and then, when he isn't looking, you put a
couple of them in your pocket.  They would make splendid souvenirs, and
he has so many he would never miss them.  You do it, and then when you
come to see me tell me all about it."

And he and Longfellow smiled broadly.

An hour later, when Longfellow dropped Edward at his hotel, he had not
only a wonderful day to think over but another wonderful day to look
forward to as well!

He had breakfasted with Oliver Wendell Holmes; dined, supped, and been
to the theatre with Longfellow; and tomorrow he was to spend with
Phillips Brooks.

Boston was a great place, Edward Bok thought, as he fell asleep.




CHAPTER VI

PHILLIPS BROOKS'S BOOKS AND EMERSON'S MENTAL MIST

No one who called at Phillips Brooks's house was ever told that the
master of the house was out when he was in.  That was a rule laid down
by Doctor Brooks: a maid was not to perjure herself for her master's
comfort or convenience.  Therefore, when Edward was told that Doctor
Brooks was out, he knew he was out.  The boy waited, and as he waited
he had a chance to look around the library and into the books.  The
rector's faithful housekeeper said he might when he repeated what
Wendell Phillips had told him of the interest that was to be found in
her master's books.  Edward did not tell her of Mr. Phillips's advice,
to "borrow" a couple of books.  He reserved that bit of information for
the rector of Trinity when he came in, an hour later.

"Oh! did he?" laughingly said Doctor Brooks.  "That is nice advice for
a man to give a boy.  I am surprised at Wendell Phillips.  He needs a
little talk: a ministerial visit.  And have you followed his shameless
advice?" smilingly asked the huge man as he towered above the boy.
"No?  And to think of the opportunity you had, too.  Well, I am glad
you had such respect for my dumb friends.  For they are my friends,
each one of them," he continued, as he looked fondly at the filled
shelves.  "Yes, I know them all, and love each for its own sake.  Take
this little volume," and he picked up a little volume of Shakespeare.
"Why, we are the best of friends: we have travelled miles together--all
over the world, as a matter of fact.  It knows me in all my moods, and
responds to each, no matter how irritable I am.  Yes, it is pretty
badly marked up now, for a fact, isn't it?  Black; I never thought of
that before that it doesn't make a book look any better to the eye.
But it means more to me because of all that pencilling.

"Now, some folks dislike my use of my books in this way.  They love
their books so much that they think it nothing short of sacrilege to
mark up a book.  But to me, that's like having a child so prettily
dressed that you can't romp and play with it.  What is the good of a
book, I say, if it is too pretty for use?  I like to have my books
speak to me, and then I like to talk back to them.

"Take my Bible, here," he continued, as he took up an old and much-worn
copy of the book.  "I have a number of copies of the Great Book: one
copy I preach from; another I minister from; but this is my own
personal copy, and into it I talk and talk.  See how I talk," and he
opened the Book and showed interleaved pages full of comments in his
handwriting.  "There's where St. Paul and I had an argument one day.
Yes, it was a long argument, and I don't know now who won," he added
smilingly.  "But then, no one ever wins in an argument, anyway, do you
think so?

"You see," went on the preacher, "I put into these books what other men
put into articles and essays for magazines and papers.  I never write
for publications.  I always think of my church when something comes to
me to say.  There is always danger of a man spreading himself out thin
if he attempts too much, you know."

Doctor Brooks, must have caught the boy's eye, which, as he said this,
naturally surveyed his great frame, for he regarded him in an amused
way, and putting his hands on his girth, he said laughingly; "You are
thinking I would have to do a great deal to spread myself out thin,
aren't you?"

The boy confessed he was, and the preacher laughed one of those deep
laughs of his that were so infectious.

"But here I am talking about myself.  Tell me something about
_yourself_?"

And when the boy told his object in coming to Boston, the rector of
Trinity Church was immensely amused.

"Just to see us fellows!  Well, and how do you like us so far?"

And in the most comfortable way this true gentleman went on until the
boy mentioned that he must be keeping him from his work.

"Not at all; not at all," was the quick and hearty response.  "Not a
thing to do.  I cleaned up all my mail before I had my breakfast this
morning.

"These letters, you mean?" he said, as the boy pointed to some letters
on his desk unopened.  "Oh, yes!  They must have come in a later mail.
Well, if it will make you feel any better I'll go through them, and you
can go through my books if you like.  I'll trust you," he added
laughingly, as Wendell Phillips's advice occurred to him.

"You like books, you say?" he went on, as he opened his letters.
"Well, then, you must come into my library here at any time you are in
Boston, and spend a morning reading anything I have that you like.
Young men do that, you know, and I like to have them.  What's the use
of good friends if you don't share them?  There's where the pleasure
comes in."

He asked the boy then about his newspaper work, how much it paid him,
and whether he felt it helped him in an educational way.  The boy told
him he thought it did; that it furnished good lessons in the study of
human nature.  "Yes," he said, "I, can believe that, so long as it is
good journalism."

As he let the boy out of his house, at the end of that first, meeting,
he said to him:

"And you're going from me now to see Emerson?  I don't know," he added
reflectively, "whether you will see him at his best.  Still, you may.
And even if you do not, to have seen him, even as you may see him, is
better, in a way, than not to have seen him at all."

Edward did not know what Phillips Brooks meant.  But he was, sadly, to
find out the next day.


A boy was pretty sure of a welcome from Louisa Alcott, and his greeting
from her was spontaneous and sincere.

"Why, you good boy," she said, "to come all the way to Concord to see
us," quite for all the world as if she were the one favored.  "Now take
your coat off, and come right in by the fire.  Do tell me all about
your visit."

Before that cozy fire they chatted.  It was pleasant to the boy to sit
there with that sweet-faced woman with those kindly eyes!  After a
while she said: "Now I shall put on my coat and hat, and we shall walk
over to Emerson's house.  I am almost afraid to promise that you will
see him.  He sees scarcely any one now.  He is feeble, and--"  She did
not finish the sentence.  "But we'll walk over there, at any rate."

She spoke mostly of her father as the two walked along, and it was easy
to see that his condition was now the one thought of her life.
Presently they reached Emerson's house, and Miss Emerson welcomed them
at the door.  After a brief chat Miss Alcott told of the boy's hope.
Miss Emerson shook her head.

"Father sees no one now," she said, "and I fear it might not be a
pleasure if you did see him."

Then Edward told her what Phillips Brooks had said.

"Well," she said, "I'll see."

She had scarcely left the room when Miss Alcott rose and followed her,
saying to the boy: "You shall see Mr. Emerson if it is at all possible."

In a few minutes Miss Alcott returned, her eyes moistened, and simply
said: "Come."

The boy followed her through two rooms, and at the threshold of the
third, Miss Emerson stood, also with moistened eyes.

"Father," she said simply, and there, at his desk, sat Emerson--the man
whose words had already won Edward Bok's boyish interest, and who was
destined to impress himself upon his life more deeply than any other
writer.

Slowly, at the daughter's spoken word, Emerson rose with a wonderful
quiet dignity, extended his hand, and as the boy's hand rested in his,
looked him full in the eyes.

No light of welcome came from those sad yet tender eyes.  The boy
closed upon the hand in his with a loving pressure, and for a single
moment the eyelids rose, a different look came into those eyes, and
Edward felt a slight, perceptible response of the hand.  But that was
all!

Quietly he motioned the boy to a chair beside the desk.  Edward sat
down and was about to say something, when, instead of seating himself,
Emerson walked away to the window and stood there softly whistling and
looking out as if there were no one in the room.  Edward's eyes had
followed Emerson's every footstep, when the boy was aroused by hearing
a suppressed sob, and as he looked around he saw that it came from Miss
Emerson.  Slowly she walked out of the room.  The boy looked at Miss
Alcott, and she put her finger to her mouth, indicating silence.  He
was nonplussed.

Edward looked toward Emerson standing in that window, and wondered what
it all meant.  Presently Emerson left the window and, crossing the
room, came to his desk, bowing to the boy as he passed, and seated
himself, not speaking a word and ignoring the presence of the two
persons in the room.

Suddenly the boy heard Miss Alcott say: "Have you read this new book by
Ruskin yet?"

Slowly the great master of thought lifted his eyes from his desk,
turned toward the speaker, rose with stately courtesy from his chair,
and, bowing to Miss Alcott, said with great deliberation: "Did you
speak to me, madam?"

The boy was dumfounded!  Louisa Alcott, his Louisa!  And he did not
know her!  Suddenly the whole sad truth flashed upon the boy.  Tears
sprang into Miss Alcott's eyes, and she walked to the other side of the
room.  The boy did not know what to say or do, so he sat silent.  With
a deliberate movement Emerson resumed his seat, and slowly his eyes
roamed over the boy sitting at the side of the desk.  He felt he should
say something.

"I thought, perhaps, Mr. Emerson," he said, "that you might be able to
favor me with a letter from Carlyle."

At the mention of the name Carlyle his eyes lifted, and he asked:
"Carlyle, did you say, sir, Carlyle?"

"Yes," said the boy, "Thomas Carlyle."

"Ye-es," Emerson answered slowly.  "To be sure, Carlyle.  Yes, he was
here this morning.  He will be here again to-morrow morning," he added
gleefully, almost like a child.

Then suddenly: "You were saying----"

Edward repeated his request.

"Oh, I think so, I think so," said Emerson, to the boy's astonishment.
"Let me see.  Yes, here in this drawer I have many letters from
Carlyle."

At these words Miss Alcott came from the other part of the room, her
wet eyes dancing with pleasure and her face wreathed in smiles.

"I think we can help this young man; do you not think so, Louisa?" said
Emerson, smiling toward Miss Alcott.  The whole atmosphere of the room
had changed.  How different the expression of his eyes as now Emerson
looked at the boy!  "And you have come all the way from New York to ask
me that!" he said smilingly as the boy told him of his trip.  "Now, let
us see," he said, as he delved in a drawer full of letters.

For a moment he groped among letters and papers, and then, softly
closing the drawer, he began that ominous low whistle once more, looked
inquiringly at each, and dropped his eyes straightway to the papers
before him on his desk.  It was to be only for a few moments, then!
Miss Alcott turned away.

The boy felt the interview could not last much longer.  So, anxious to
have some personal souvenir of the meeting, he said: "Mr. Emerson, will
you be so good as to write your name in this book for me?" and he
brought out an album he had in his pocket.

"Name?" he asked vaguely.

"Yes, please," said the boy, "your name: Ralph Waldo Emerson."

But the sound of the name brought no response from the eyes.

"Please write out the name you want," he said finally, "and I will copy
it for you if I can."

It was hard for the boy to believe his own senses.  But picking up a
pen he wrote: "Ralph Waldo Emerson, Concord; November 22, 1881."

Emerson looked at it, and said mournfully: "Thank you."  Then he picked
up the pen, and writing the single letter "R" stopped, followed his
finger until it reached the "W" of Waldo, and studiously copied letter
by letter!  At the word "Concord" he seemed to hesitate, as if the task
were too great, but finally copied again, letter by letter, until the
second "c" was reached.  "Another 'o,'" he said, and interpolated an
extra letter in the name of the town which he had done so much to make
famous the world over.  When he had finished he handed back the book,
in which there was written:

[Illustration: Ralph Waldo Emerson's signature.]

The boy put the book into his pocket; and as he did so Emerson's eye
caught the slip on his desk, in the boy's handwriting, and, with a
smile of absolute enlightenment, he turned and said;

"You wish me to write my name?  With pleasure.  Have you a book with
you?"

Overcome with astonishment, Edward mechanically handed him the album
once more from his pocket.  Quickly turning over the leaves, Emerson
picked up the pen, and pushing aside the slip, wrote without a moment's
hesitation:

[Illustration: Ralph Waldo Emerson's second signature.]

The boy was almost dazed at the instantaneous transformation in the man!

Miss Alcott now grasped this moment to say: "Well, we must be going!"

"So soon?" said Emerson, rising and smiling.  Then turning to Miss
Alcott he said: "It was very kind of you, Louisa, to run over this
morning and bring your young friend."

Then turning to the boy he said: "Thank you so much for coming to see
me.  You must come over again while you are with the Alcotts.  Good
morning!  Isn't it a beautiful day out?" he said, and as he shook the
boy's hand there was a warm grasp in it, the fingers closed around
those of the boy, and as Edward looked into those deep eyes they
twinkled and smiled back.

The going was all so different from the coming.  The boy was grateful
that his last impression was of a moment when the eye kindled and the
hand pulsated.

The two walked back to the Alcott home in an almost unbroken silence.
Once Edward ventured to remark:

"You can have no idea, Miss Alcott, how grateful I am to you."

"Well, my boy," she answered, "Phillips Brooks may be right: that it is
something to have seen him even so, than not to have seen him at all.
But to us it is so sad, so very sad.  The twilight is gently closing
in."

And so it proved--just five months afterward.

Eventful day after eventful day followed in Edward's Boston visit.  The
following morning he spent with Wendell Phillips, who presented him
with letters from William Lloyd Garrison, Lucretia Mott, and other
famous persons; and then, writing a letter of introduction to Charles
Francis Adams, whom he enjoined to give the boy autograph letters from
his two presidential forbears, John Adams and John Quincy Adams, sent
Edward on his way rejoicing.  Mr. Adams received the boy with equal
graciousness and liberality.  Wonderful letters from the two Adamses
were his when he left.

And then, taking the train for New York, Edward Bok went home, sitting
up all night in a day-coach for the double purpose of saving the cost
of a sleeping-berth and of having a chance to classify and clarify the
events of the most wonderful week in his life!




CHAPTER VII

A PLUNGE INTO WALL STREET

The father of Edward Bok passed away when Edward was eighteen years of
age, and it was found that the amount of the small insurance left
behind would barely cover the funeral expenses.  Hence the two boys
faced the problem of supporting the mother on their meagre income.
They determined to have but one goal: to put their mother back to that
life of comfort to which she had been brought up and was formerly
accustomed.  But that was not possible on their income.  It was evident
that other employment must be taken on during the evenings.

The city editor of the _Brooklyn Eagle_ had given Edward the assignment
of covering the news of the theatres; he was to ascertain "coming
attractions" and any other dramatic items of news interest.  One Monday
evening, when a multiplicity of events crowded the reportorial corps,
Edward was delegated to "cover" the Grand Opera House, where Rose
Coghlan was to appear in a play that had already been seen in Brooklyn,
and called, therefore, for no special dramatic criticism.  Yet _The
Eagle_ wanted to cover it.  It so happened that Edward had made another
appointment for that evening which he considered more important, and
yet not wishing to disappoint his editor he accepted the assignment.
He had seen Miss Coghlan in the play; so he kept his other engagement,
and without approaching the theatre he wrote a notice to the effect
that Miss Coghlan acted her part, if anything, with greater power than
on her previous Brooklyn visit, and so forth, and handed it in to his
city editor the next morning on his way to business.

Unfortunately, however, Miss Coghlan had been taken ill just before the
raising of the curtain, and, there being no understudy, no performance
had been given and the audience dismissed.  All this was duly commented
upon by the New York morning newspapers.  Edward read this bit of news
on the ferry-boat, but his notice was in the hands of the city editor.

On reaching home that evening he found a summons from _The Eagle_, and
the next morning he received a rebuke, and was informed that his
chances with the paper were over.  The ready acknowledgment and evident
regret of the crestfallen boy, however, appealed to the editor, and
before the end of the week he called the boy to him and promised him
another chance, provided the lesson had sunk in.  It had, and it left a
lasting impression.  It was always a cause of profound gratitude with
Edward Bok that his first attempt at "faking" occurred so early in his
journalistic career that he could take the experience to heart and
profit by it.

One evening when Edward was attending a theatrical performance, he
noticed the restlessness of the women in the audience between the acts.
In those days it was, even more than at present, the custom for the men
to go out between the acts, leaving the women alone.  Edward looked at
the programme in his hands.  It was a large eleven-by-nine sheet, four
pages, badly printed, with nothing in it save the cast, a few
advertisements, and an announcement of some coming attraction.  The boy
mechanically folded the programme, turned it long side up and wondered
whether a programme of this smaller size, easier to handle, with an
attractive cover and some reading-matter, would not be profitable.

When he reached home he made up an eight-page "dummy," pasted an
attractive picture on the cover, indicated the material to go inside,
and the next morning showed it to the manager of the theatre.  The
programme as issued was an item of considerable expense to the
management; Edward offered to supply his new programme without cost,
provided he was given the exclusive right, and the manager at once
accepted the offer.  Edward then sought a friend, Frederic L. Colver,
who had a larger experience in publishing and advertising, with whom he
formed a partnership.  Deciding that immediately upon the issuance of
their first programme the idea was likely to be taken up by the other
theatres, Edward proceeded to secure the exclusive rights to them all.
The two young publishers solicited their advertisements on the way to
and from business mornings and evenings, and shortly the first
smaller-sized theatre programme, now in use in all theatres, appeared.
The venture was successful from the start, returning a comfortable
profit each week.  Such advertisements as they could not secure for
cash they accepted in trade; and this latter arrangement assisted
materially in maintaining the households of the two publishers.

Edward's partner now introduced him into a debating society called The
Philomathean Society, made up of young men connected with Plymouth
Church, of which Henry Ward Beecher was pastor.  The debates took the
form of a miniature congress, each member representing a State, and it
is a curious coincidence that Edward drew, by lot, the representation
of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.  The members took these debates
very seriously; no subject was too large for them to discuss.  Edward
became intensely interested in the society's doings, and it was not
long before he was elected president.

The society derived its revenue from the dues of its members and from
an annual concert given under its auspices in Plymouth Church.  When
the time for the concert under Edward's presidency came around, he
decided that the occasion should be unique so as to insure a crowded
house.  He induced Mr. Beecher to preside; he got General Grant's
promise to come and speak; he secured the gratuitous services of Emma
C. Thursby, Annie Louise Cary, Clara Louise Kellogg, and Evelyn Lyon
Hegeman, all of the first rank of concert-singers of that day, with the
result that the church could not accommodate the crowd which naturally
was attracted by such a programme.

It now entered into the minds of the two young theatre-programme
publishers to extend their publishing interests by issuing an "organ"
for their society, and the first issue of _The Philomathean Review_
duly appeared with Mr. Colver as its publisher and Edward Bok as
editor.  Edward had now an opportunity to try his wings in an editorial
capacity.  The periodical was, of course, essentially an organ of the
society; but gradually it took on a more general character, so that its
circulation might extend over a larger portion of Brooklyn.  With this
extension came a further broadening of its contents, which now began to
take on a literary character, and it was not long before its two
projectors realized that the periodical had outgrown its name.  It was
decided--late in 1884--to change the name to _The Brooklyn Magazine_.

There was a periodical called _The Plymouth Pulpit_, which presented
verbatim reports of the sermons of Mr. Beecher, and Edward got the idea
of absorbing the _Pulpit_ in the _Magazine_.  But that required more
capital than he and his partner could command.  They consulted Mr.
Beecher, who, attracted by the enterprise of the two boys, sent them
with letters of introduction to a few of his most influential
parishioners, with the result that the pair soon had a sufficient
financial backing by some of the leading men of Brooklyn, like H. B.
Claflin, Seth Low, Rossiter W. Raymond, Horatio C. King, and others.

The young publishers could now go on.  Understanding that Mr. Beecher's
sermons might give a partial and denominational tone to the magazine,
Edward arranged to publish also in its pages verbatim reports of the
sermons of the Reverend T. De Witt Talmage, whose reputation was then
at its zenith.  The young editor now realized that he had a rather
heavy cargo of sermons to carry each month; accordingly, in order that
his magazine might not appear to be exclusively religious, he
determined that its literary contents should be of a high order and
equal in interest to the sermons.  But this called for additional
capital, and the capital furnished was not for that purpose.

It is here that Edward's autographic acquaintances stood him in good
stead.  He went in turn to each noted person he had met, explained his
plight and stated his ambitions, with the result that very soon the
magazine and the public were surprised at the distinction of the
contributors to _The Brooklyn Magazine_.  Each number contained a
noteworthy list of them, and when an article by the President of the
United States, then Rutherford B. Hayes, opened one of the numbers, the
public was astonished, since up to that time the unwritten rule that a
President's writings were confined to official pronouncements had
scarcely been broken.  William Dean Howells, General Grant, General
Sherman, Phillips Brooks, General Sheridan, Canon Farrar, Cardinal
Gibbons, Marion Harland, Margaret Sangster--the most prominent men and
women of the day, some of whom had never written for magazines--began
to appear in the young editor's contents.  Editors wondered how the
publishers could afford it, whereas, in fact, not a single name
represented an honorarium.  Each contributor had come gratuitously to
the aid of the editor.

At first, the circulation of the magazine permitted the boys to wrap
the copies themselves; and then they, with two other boys, would carry
as huge bundles as they could lift, put them late at night on the front
platform of the streetcars, and take them to the post-office.  Thus the
boys absolutely knew the growth of their circulation by the weight of
their bundles and the number of their front-platform trips each month.
Soon a baker's hand-cart was leased for an evening, and that was added
to the capacity of the front platforms.  Then one eventful month it was
seen that a horse-truck would have to be employed.  Within three weeks,
a double horse-truck was necessary, and three trips had to be made.

By this time Edward Bok had become so intensely interested in the
editorial problem, and his partner in the periodical publishing part,
that they decided to sell out their theatre-programme interests and
devote themselves to the magazine and its rapidly increasing
circulation.  All of Edward's editorial work had naturally to be done
outside of his business hours, in other words, in the evenings and on
Sundays; and the young editor found himself fully occupied.  He now
revived the old idea of selecting a subject and having ten or twenty
writers express their views on it.  It was the old symposium idea, but
it had not been presented in American journalism for a number of years.
He conceived the topic "Should America Have a Westminster Abbey?" and
induced some twenty of the foremost men and women of the day to discuss
it.  When the discussion was presented in the magazine, the form being
new and the theme novel, Edward was careful to send advance sheets to
the newspapers, which treated it at length in reviews and editorials,
with marked effect upon the circulation of the magazine.

All this time, while Edward Bok was an editor in his evenings he was,
during the day, a stenographer and clerk of the Western Union Telegraph
Company.  The two occupations were hardly compatible, but each meant a
source of revenue to the boy, and he felt he must hold on to both.

After his father passed away, the position of the boy's desk--next to
the empty desk of his father--was a cause of constant depression to
him.  This was understood by the attorney for the company, Mr. Clarence
Cary, who sought the head of Edward's department, with the result that
Edward was transferred to Mr. Cary's department as the attorney's
private stenographer.

Edward had been much attracted to Mr. Cary, and the attorney believed
in the boy, and decided to show his interest by pushing him along.  He
had heard of the dual role which Edward was playing; he bought a copy
of the magazine, and was interested.  Edward now worked with new zest
for his employer and friend; while in every free moment he read law,
feeling that, as almost all his forbears had been lawyers, he might
perhaps be destined for the bar.  This acquaintance with the
fundamental basis of law, cursory as it was, became like a gospel to
Edward Bok.  In later years, he was taught its value by repeated
experience in his contact with corporate laws, contracts, property
leases, and other matters; and he determined that, whatever the
direction of activity taken by his sons, each should spend at least a
year in the study of law.

The control of the Western Union Telegraph Company had now passed into
the hands of Jay Gould and his companions, and in the many legal
matters arising therefrom, Edward saw much, in his office, of "the
little wizard of Wall Street."  One day, the financier had to dictate a
contract, and, coming into Mr. Cary's office, decided to dictate it
then and there.  An hour afterward Edward delivered the copy of the
contract to Mr. Gould, and the financier was so struck by its accuracy
and by the legibility of the handwriting that afterward he almost daily
"happened in" to dictate to Mr. Cary's stenographer.  Mr. Gould's
private stenographer was in his own office in lower Broadway; but on
his way down-town in the morning Mr. Gould invariably stopped at the
Western Union Building, at 195 Broadway; and the habit resulted in the
installation of a private office there.  He borrowed Edward to do his
stenography.  The boy found himself taking not only letters from Mr.
Gould's dictation, but, what interested him particularly, the
financier's orders to buy and sell stock.

Edward watched the effects on the stock-market of these little notes
which he wrote out and then shot through a pneumatic tube to Mr.
Gould's brokers.  Naturally, the results enthralled the boy, and he
told Mr. Cary about his discoveries.  This, in turn, interested Mr.
Cary; Mr. Gould's dictations were frequently given in Mr. Cary's own
office, where, as his desk was not ten feet from that of his
stenographer, the attorney heard them, and began to buy and sell
according to the magnate's decisions.

Edward had now become tremendously interested in the stock game which
he saw constantly played by the great financier; and having a little
money saved up, he concluded that he would follow in the wake of Mr.
Gould's orders.  One day, he naïvely mentioned his desire to Mr. Gould,
when the financier seemed in a particularly favorable frame of mind;
but Edward did not succeed in drawing out the advice he hoped for.  "At
least," reasoned Edward, "he knew of my intention; and if he considered
it a violation of confidence he would have said as much."

Construing the financier's silence to mean at least not a prohibition,
Edward went to his Sunday-school teacher, who was a member of a Wall
Street brokerage firm, laid the facts before him, and asked him if he
would buy for him some Western Union stock.  Edward explained, however,
that somehow he did not like the gambling idea of buying "on margin,"
and preferred to purchase the stock outright.  He was shown that this
would mean smaller profits; but the boy had in mind the loss of his
father's fortune, brought about largely by "stock margins," and he did
not intend to follow that example.  So, prudently, under the brokerage
of his Sunday-school teacher, and guided by the tips of no less a man
than the controlling factor of stock-market finance, Edward Bok took
his first plunge in Wall Street!

Of course the boy's buying and selling tallied precisely with the rise
and fall of Western Union stock.  It could scarcely have been
otherwise.  Jay Gould had the cards all in his hands; and as he bought
and sold, so Edward bought and sold.  The trouble was, the combination
did not end there, as Edward might have foreseen had he been older and
thus wiser.  For as Edward bought and sold, so did his Sunday-school
teacher, and all his customers who had seen the wonderful acumen of
their broker in choosing exactly the right time to buy and sell Western
Union.  But Edward did not know this.

One day a rumor became current on the Street that an agreement had been
reached by the Western Union Company and its bitter rival, the American
Union Telegraph Company, whereby the former was to absorb the latter.
Naturally; the report affected Western Union stock.  But Mr. Gould
denied it in toto; said the report was not true, no such consolidation
was in view or had even been considered.  Down tumbled the stock, of
course.

But it so happened that Edward knew the rumor was true, because Mr.
Gould, some time before, had personally given him the contract of
consolidation to copy.  The next day a rumor to the effect that the
American Union was to absorb the Western Union appeared on the first
page of every New York newspaper.  Edward knew exactly whence this
rumor emanated.  He had heard it talked over.  Again, Western Union
stock dropped several points.  Then he noticed that Mr. Gould became a
heavy buyer.  So became Edward--as heavy as he could.  Jay Gould
pooh-poohed the latest rumor.  The boy awaited developments.

On Sunday afternoon, Edward's Sunday-school teacher asked the boy to
walk home with him, and on reaching the house took him into the study
and asked him whether he felt justified in putting all his savings in
Western Union just at that time when the price was tumbling so fast and
the market was so unsteady.  Edward assured his teacher that he was
right, although he explained that he could not disclose the basis of
his assurance.

Edward thought his teacher looked worried, and after a little there
came the revelation that he, seeing that Edward was buying to his
limit, had likewise done so.  But the broker had bought on margin, and
had his margin wiped out by the decline in the stock caused by the
rumors.  He explained to Edward that he could recoup his losses, heavy
though they were--in fact, he explained that nearly everything he
possessed was involved--if Edward's basis was sure and the stock would
recover.

Edward keenly felt the responsibility placed upon him.  He could never
clearly diagnose his feelings when he saw his teacher in this new
light.  The broker's "customers" had been hinted at, and the boy of
eighteen wondered how far his responsibility went, and how many persons
were involved.  But the deal came out all right, for when, three days
afterward, the contract was made public, Western Union, of course,
skyrocketed, Jay Gould sold out, Edward sold out, the teacher-broker
sold out, and all the customers sold out!

How long a string it was Edward never discovered, but he determined
there and then to end his Wall Street experience; his original amount
had multiplied; he was content to let well enough alone, and from that
day to this Edward Bok has kept out of Wall Street.  He had seen enough
of its manipulations; and, although on "the inside," he decided that
the combination of his teacher and his customers was a responsibility
too great for him to carry.

Furthermore, Edward decided to leave the Western Union.  The longer he
remained, the less he liked its atmosphere.  And the closer his contact
with Jay Gould the more doubtful he became of the wisdom of such an
association and perhaps its unconscious influence upon his own life in
its formative period.

In fact, it was an experience with Mr. Gould that definitely fixed
Edward's determination.  The financier decided one Saturday to leave on
a railroad inspection tour on the following Monday.  It was necessary
that a special meeting of one of his railroad interests should be held
before his departure, and he fixed the meeting for Sunday at
eleven-thirty at his residence on Fifth Avenue.  He asked Edward to be
there to take the notes of the meeting.

The meeting was protracted, and at one o'clock Mr. Gould suggested an
adjournment for luncheon, the meeting to reconvene at two.  Turning to
Edward, the financier said: "You may go out to luncheon and return in
an hour."  So, on Sunday afternoon, with the Windsor Hotel on the
opposite corner as the only visible place to get something to eat, but
where he could not afford to go, Edward, with just fifteen cents in his
pocket, was turned out to find a luncheon place.

He bought three apples for five cents--all that he could afford to
spend, and even this meant that he must walk home from the ferry to his
house in Brooklyn--and these he ate as he walked up and down Fifth
Avenue until his hour was over.  When the meeting ended at three
o'clock, Mr. Gould said that, as he was leaving for the West early next
morning, he would like Edward to write out his notes, and have them at
his house by eight o'clock.  There were over forty note-book pages of
minutes.  The remainder of Edward's Sunday afternoon and evening was
spent in transcribing the notes.  By rising at half past five the next
morning he reached Mr. Gould's house at a quarter to eight, handed him
the minutes, and was dismissed without so much as a word of thanks or a
nod of approval from the financier.

Edward felt that this exceeded the limit of fair treatment by employer
of employee.  He spoke of it to Mr. Cary, and asked whether he would
object if he tried to get away from such influence and secure another
position.  His employer asked the boy in which direction he would like
to go, and Edward unhesitatingly suggested the publishing business.  He
talked it over from every angle with his employer, and Mr. Cary not
only agreed with him that his decision was wise, but promised to find
him a position such as he had in mind.

It was not long before Mr. Cary made good his word, and told Edward
that his friend Henry Holt, the publisher, would like to give him a
trial.

The day before he was to leave the Western Union Telegraph Company the
fact of his resignation became known to Mr. Gould.  The financier told
the boy there was no reason for his leaving, and that he would
personally see to it that a substantial increase was made in his
salary.  Edward explained that the salary, while of importance to him,
did not influence him so much as securing a position in a business in
which he felt he would be happier.

"And what business is that?" asked the financier.

"The publishing of books," replied the boy.

"You are making a great mistake," answered the little man, fixing his
keen gray eyes on the boy.  "Books are a luxury.  The public spends its
largest money on necessities: on what it can't do without.  It must
telegraph; it need not read.  It can read in libraries.  A promising
boy such as you are, with his life before him, should choose the right
sort of business, not the wrong one."

But, as facts proved, the "little wizard of Wall Street" was wrong in
his prediction; Edward Bok was not choosing the wrong business.

Years afterward when Edward was cruising up the Hudson with a yachting
party one Saturday afternoon, the sight of Jay Gould's mansion, upon
approaching Irvington, awakened the desire of the women on board to see
his wonderful orchid collection.  Edward explained his previous
association with the financier and offered to recall himself to him, if
the party wished to take the chance of recognition.  A note was written
to Mr. Gould, and sent ashore, and the answer came back that they were
welcome to visit the orchid houses.  Jay Gould, in person, received the
party, and, placing it under the personal conduct of his gardener,
turned to Edward and, indicating a bench, said:

"Come and sit down here with me."

"Well," said the financier, who was in his domestic mood, quite
different from his Wall Street aspect, "I see in the papers that you
seem to be making your way in the publishing business."

Edward expressed surprise that the Wall Street magnate had followed his
work.

"I have because I always felt you had it in you to make a successful
man.  But not in that business," he added quickly.  "You were born for
the Street.  You would have made a great success there, and that is
what I had in mind for you.  In the publishing business you will go
just so far; in the Street you could have gone as far as you liked.
There is room there; there is none in the publishing business.  It's
not too late now, for that matter," continued the "little wizard,"
fastening his steel eyes on the young man beside him!

And Edward Bok has often speculated whither Jay Gould might have led
him.  To many a young man, a suggestion from such a source would have
seemed the one to heed and follow.  But Edward Bok's instinct never
failed him.  He felt that his path lay far apart from that of Jay
Gould--and the farther the better!

In 1882 Edward, with a feeling of distinct relief, left the employ of
the Western Union Telegraph Company and associated himself with the
publishing business in which he had correctly divined that his future
lay.

His chief regret on leaving his position was in severing the close
relations, almost as of father and son, between Mr. Cary and himself.
When Edward was left alone, with the passing away of his father,
Clarence Cary had put his sheltering arm around the lonely boy, and
with the tremendous encouragement of the phrase that the boy never
forgot, "I think you have it in you, Edward, to make a successful man,"
he took him under his wing.  It was a turning-point in Edward Bok's
life, as he felt at the time and as he saw more clearly afterward.

He remained in touch with his friend, however, keeping him advised of
his progress in everything he did, not only at that time, but all
through his later years.  And it was given to Edward to feel the deep
satisfaction of having Mr. Cary say, before he passed away, that the
boy had more than justified the confidence reposed in him.  Mr. Cary
lived to see him well on his way, until, indeed, Edward had had the
proud happiness of introducing to his benefactor the son who bore his
name, Cary William Bok.




CHAPTER VIII

STARTING A NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE

Edward felt that his daytime hours, spent in a publishing atmosphere as
stenographer with Henry Holt and Company, were more in line with his
editorial duties during the evenings.  _The Brooklyn Magazine_ was soon
earning a comfortable income for its two young proprietors, and their
backers were entirely satisfied with the way it was being conducted.
In fact, one of these backers, Mr. Rufus T. Bush, associated with the
Standard Oil Company, who became especially interested, thought he saw
in the success of the magazine a possible opening for one of his sons,
who was shortly to be graduated from college.  He talked to the
publisher and editor about the idea, but the boys showed by their books
that while there was a reasonable income for them, not wholly dependent
on the magazine, there was no room for a third.

Mr. Bush now suggested that he buy the magazine for his son, alter its
name, enlarge its scope, and make of it a national periodical.
Arrangements were concluded, those who had financially backed the
venture were fully paid, and the two boys received a satisfactory
amount for their work in building up the magazine.  Mr. Bush asked
Edward to suggest a name for the new periodical, and in the following
month of May, 1887, _The Brooklyn Magazine_ became _The American
Magazine_, with its publication office in New York.  But, though a
great deal of money was spent on the new magazine, it did not succeed.
Mr. Bush sold his interest in the periodical, which, once more changing
its name, became _The Cosmopolitan Magazine_.  Since then it has passed
through the hands of several owners, but the name has remained the
same.  Before Mr. Bush sold _The American Magazine_ he had urged Edward
to come back to it as its editor, with promise of financial support;
but the young man felt instinctively that his return would not be wise.
The magazine had been _The Cosmopolitan_ only a short time when the new
owners, Mr. Paul J. Slicht and Mr. E. D. Walker, also solicited the
previous editor to accept reappointment.  But Edward, feeling that his
baby had been rechristened too often for him to father it again,
declined the proposition.  He had not heard the last of it, however,
for, by a curious coincidence, its subsequent owner, entirely ignorant
of Edward's previous association with the magazine, invited him to
connect himself with it.  Thus three times could Edward Bok have
returned to the magazine for whose creation he was responsible.

Edward was now without editorial cares; but he had already, even before
disposing of the magazine, embarked on another line of endeavor.  In
sending to a number of newspapers the advance sheets of a particularly
striking "feature" in one of his numbers of _The Brooklyn Magazine_, it
occurred to him that he was furnishing a good deal of valuable material
to these papers without cost.  It is true his magazine was receiving
the advertising value of editorial comment; but he wondered whether the
newspapers would not be willing to pay for the privilege of
simultaneous publication.  An inquiry or two proved that they would.
Thus Edward stumbled upon the "syndicate" plan of furnishing the same
article to a group of newspapers, one in each city, for simultaneous
publication.  He looked over the ground, and found that while his idea
was not a new one, since two "syndicate" agencies already existed, the
field was by no means fully covered, and that the success of a third
agency would depend entirely upon its ability to furnish the newspapers
with material equally good or better than they received from the
others.  After following the material furnished by these agencies for
two or three weeks, Edward decided that there was plenty of room for
his new ideas.

He discussed the matter with his former magazine partner, Colver, and
suggested that if they could induce Mr. Beecher to write a weekly
comment on current events for the newspapers it would make an
auspicious beginning.  They decided to talk it over with the famous
preacher.  For to be a "Plymouth boy"--that is, to go to the Plymouth
Church Sunday-school and to attend church there--was to know personally
and become devoted to Henry Ward Beecher.  And the two were synonymous.
There was no distance between Mr. Beecher and his "Plymouth boys."
Each understood the other.  The tie was that of absolute comradeship.

"I don't believe in it, boys," said Mr. Beecher when Edward and his
friend broached the syndicate letter to him.  "No one yet ever made a
cent out of my supposed literary work."

All the more reason, was the argument, why some one should.

Mr. Beecher smiled!  How well he knew the youthful enthusiasm that
rushes in, etc.

"Well, all right!  I like your pluck," he finally said.  "I'll help you
if I can."

The young editors agreed to pay Mr. Beecher a weekly sum of two hundred
and fifty dollars--which he knew was considerable for them.

When the first article had been written they took him their first
check.  He looked at it quizzically, and then at the boys.  Then he
said simply: "Thank you."  He took a pin and pinned the check to his
desk.  There it remained, much to their curiosity.

The following week he had written the second article and the boys gave
him another check.  He pinned that up over the other.  "I like to look
at them," was his only explanation, as he saw Edward's inquiring glance
one morning.

The third check was treated the same way.  When they handed him the
fourth, one morning, as he was pinning it up over the others, he asked:
"When do you get your money from the newspapers?"

He was told that the bills were going out that morning for the four
letters constituting a month's service.

"I see," he remarked.

A fortnight passed, then one day Mr. Beecher asked: "Well, how are the
checks coming in?"

"Very well," he was assured.

"Suppose you let me see how much you've got in," he suggested, and the
boys brought the accounts to him.

After looking at them he said: "That's very interesting.  How much have
you in the bank?"

He was told the balance, less the checks given to him.  "But I haven't
turned them in yet," he explained.  "Anyhow, you have enough in bank to
meet the checks you have given me, and a profit besides, haven't you?"

He was assured they had.

Then, taking his bank-book from a drawer; he unpinned the six checks on
his desk, indorsed each, wrote a deposit slip, and, handing the book to
Edward, said:

"Just hand that in at the bank as you go by, will you?"

Edward was very young then, and Mr. Beecher's methods of financiering
seemed to him quite in line with current notions of the Plymouth
pastor's lack of business knowledge.  But as the years rolled on the
incident appeared in a new light--a striking example of the great
preacher's wonderful considerateness.

Edward had offered to help Mr. Beecher with his correspondence; at the
close of one afternoon, while he was with the Plymouth pastor at work,
an organ-grinder and a little girl came under the study window.  A
cold, driving rain was pelting down.  In a moment Mr. Beecher noticed
the girl's bare toes sticking out of her worn shoes.

He got up, went into the hall, and called for one of his granddaughters.

"Got any good, strong rain boots?" he asked when she appeared.

"Why, yes, grandfather.  Why?" was the answer.

"More than one pair?" Mr. Beecher asked.

"Yes, two or three, I think."

"Bring me your strongest pair, will you, dear?" he asked.  And as the
girl looked at him with surprise he said: "Just one of my notions."

"Now, just bring that child into the house and put them on her feet for
me, will you?" he said when the shoes came.  "I'll be able to work so
much better."

One rainy day, as Edward was coming up from Fulton Ferry with Mr.
Beecher, they met an old woman soaked with the rain.  "Here, you take
this, my good woman," said the clergyman, putting his umbrella over her
head and thrusting the handle into the astonished woman's hand.  "Let's
get into this," he said to Edward simply, as he hailed a passing car.

"There is a good deal of fraud about beggars," he remarked as he waved
a sot away from him one day; "but that doesn't apply to women and
children," he added; and he never passed such mendicants without
stopping.  All the stories about their being tools in the hands of
accomplices failed to convince him.  "They're women and children," he
would say, and that settled it for him.

"What's the matter, son?  Stuck?" he said once to a newsboy who was
crying with a heavy bundle of papers under his arm.

"Come along with me, then," said Mr. Beecher, taking the boy's hand and
leading him into the newspaper office a few doors up the street.

"This boy is stuck," he simply said to the man behind the counter.
"Guess _The Eagle_ can stand it better than this boy; don't you think
so?"

To the grown man Mr. Beecher rarely gave charity.

He believed in a return for his alms.

"Why don't you go to work?" he asked of a man who approached him one
day in the street.

"Can't find any," said the man.

"Looked hard for it?" was the next question.

"I have," and the man looked Mr. Beecher in the eye.

"Want some?" asked Mr. Beecher.

"I do," said the man.

"Come with me," said the preacher.  And then to Edward, as they walked
along with the man following behind, he added: "That man is honest."

"Let this man sweep out the church," he said to the sexton when they
had reached Plymouth Church.

"But, Mr. Beecher," replied the sexton with wounded pride, "it doesn't
need it."

"Don't tell him so, though," said Mr. Beecher with a merry twinkle of
the eye; and the sexton understood.

Mr. Beecher was constantly thoughtful of a struggling young man's
welfare, even at the expense of his own material comfort.  Anxious to
save him from the labor of writing out the newspaper articles, Edward,
himself employed during the daylight hours which Mr. Beecher preferred
for his original work, suggested a stenographer.  The idea appealed to
Mr. Beecher, for he was very busy just then.  He hesitated, but as
Edward persisted, he said: "All right; let him come to-morrow."

The next day he said: "I asked that stenographer friend of yours not to
come again.  No use of my trying to dictate.  I am too old to learn new
tricks.  Much easier for me to write myself."

Shortly after that, however, Mr. Beecher dictated to Edward some
material for a book he was writing.  Edward naturally wondered at this,
and asked the stenographer what had happened.

"Nothing," he said.  "Only Mr. Beecher asked me how much it would cost
you to have me come to him each week.  I told him, and then he sent me
away."

That was Henry Ward Beecher!


Edward Bok was in the formative period between boyhood and young
manhood when impressions meant lessons, and associations meant ideals.
Mr. Beecher never disappointed.  The closer one got to him, the greater
he became--in striking contrast to most public men, as Edward had
already learned.

Then, his interests and sympathies were enormously wide.  He took in so
much!  One day Edward was walking past Fulton Market, in New York City,
with Mr. Beecher.

"Never skirt a market," the latter said; "always go through it.  It's
the next best thing, in the winter, to going South."

Of course all the marketmen knew him, and they knew, too, his love for
green things.

"What do you think of these apples, Mr. Beecher?" one marketman would
stop to ask.

Mr. Beecher would answer heartily: "Fine!  Don't see how you grow them.
All that my trees bear is a crop of scale.  Still, the blossoms are
beautiful in the spring, and I like an apple-leaf.  Ever examine one?"
The marketman never had.  "Well, now, do, the next time you come across
an apple-tree in the spring."

And thus he would spread abroad an interest in the beauties of nature
which were commonly passed over.

"Wonderful man, Beecher is," said a market dealer in green goods once.
"I had handled thousands of bunches of celery in my life and never
noticed how beautiful its top leaves were until he picked up a bunch
once and told me all about it.  Now I haven't the heart to cut the
leaves off when a customer asks me."

His idea of his own vegetable-gardening at Boscobel, his Peekskill
home, was very amusing.  One day Edward was having a hurried dinner,
preparatory to catching the New York train.  Mr. Beecher sat beside the
boy, telling him of some things he wished done in Brooklyn.

"No, I thank you," said Edward, as the maid offered him some potatoes.

"Look here, young man," said Mr. Beecher, "don't pass those potatoes so
lightly.  They're of my own raising--and I reckon they cost me about a
dollar a piece," he added with a twinkle in his eye.

He was an education in so many ways!  One instance taught Edward the
great danger of passionate speech that might unconsciously wound; and
the manliness of instant recognition of the error.  Swayed by an
occasion, or by the responsiveness of an audience, Mr. Beecher would
sometimes say something which was not meant as it sounded.  One
evening, at a great political meeting at Cooper Union, Mr. Beecher was
at his brightest and wittiest.  In the course of his remarks he had
occasion to refer to ex-President Hayes; some one in the audience
called out: "He was a softy!"

"No," was Mr. Beecher's quick response.  "The country needed a poultice
at that time, and got it."

"He's dead now, anyhow," responded the voice.

"Not dead, my friend; he only sleepeth."

It convulsed the audience, of course, and the reporters took it down in
their books.

After the meeting Edward drove home with Mr. Beecher.

After a while he asked: "Well, how do you think it went?"

Edward replied he thought it went very well, except that he did not
like the reference to ex-President Hayes.

"What reference?  What did I say?"

Edward repeated it.

"Did I say that?" he asked.  Edward looked at him.  Mr. Beecher's face
was tense.  After a few moments he said: "That's generally the way with
extemporaneous remarks: they are always dangerous.  The best impromptu
speeches and remarks are the carefully prepared kind," he added.

Edward told him he regretted the reference because he knew that General
Hayes would read it in the New York papers, and he would be nonplussed
to understand it, considering the cordial relations which existed
between the two men.  Mr. Beecher knew of Edward's relations with the
ex-President, and they had often talked of him together.

Nothing more was said of the incident.  When the Beecher home was
reached Mr. Beecher said: "Just come in a minute."  He went straight to
his desk, and wrote and wrote.  It seemed as if he would never stop.
At last he handed Edward an eight-page letter, closely written,
addressed to General Hayes.

"Read that, and mail it, please, on your way home.  Then it'll get
there just as quickly as the New York papers will."

It was a superbly fine letter,--one of those letters which only Henry
Ward Beecher could write in his tenderest moods.  And the reply which
came from Fremont, Ohio, was no less fine!




CHAPTER IX

THE FIRST "WOMAN'S PAGE," "LITERARY LEAVES," AND ENTERING SCRIBNER'S

Edward had been in the employ of Henry Holt and Company as clerk and
stenographer for two years when Mr. Cary sent for him and told him that
there was an opening in the publishing house of Charles Scribner's
Sons, if he wanted to make a change.  Edward saw at once the larger
opportunities possible in a house of the importance of the Scribners,
and he immediately placed himself in communication with Mr. Charles
Scribner, with the result that in January, 1884, he entered the employ
of these publishers as stenographer to the two members of the firm and
to Mr. Edward L. Burlingame, literary adviser to the house.  He was to
receive a salary of eighteen dollars and thirty-three cents per week,
which was then considered a fair wage for stenographic work.  The
typewriter had at that time not come into use, and all letters were
written in long-hand.  Once more his legible handwriting had secured
for him a position.

Edward Bok was now twenty-one years of age.  He had already done a
prodigious amount of work for his years.  He was always busy.  Every
spare moment of his evenings was devoted either to writing his literary
letter, to the steady acquirement of autograph letters in which he
still persisted, or to helping Mr. Beecher in his literary work.  The
Plymouth pastor was particularly pleased with Edward's successful
exploitation of his pen work; and he afterward wrote: "Bok is the only
man who ever seemed to make my literary work go and get money out of
it."

Enterprise and energy the boy unquestionably possessed, but one need
only think back even thus far in his life to see the continuous good
fortune which had followed him in the friendships he had made, and in
the men with whom his life, at its most formative period, had come into
close contact.  If we are inclined to credit young Bok with an
ever-willingness to work and a certain quality of initiative, the
influences which played upon him must also be taken into account.

Take, for example, the peculiarly fortuitous circumstances under which
he entered the Scribner publishing house.  As stenographer to the two
members of the firm, Bok was immediately brought into touch with the
leading authors of the day, their works as they were discussed in the
correspondence dictated to him, and the authors' terms upon which books
were published.  In fact, he was given as close an insight as it was
possible for a young man to get into the inner workings of one of the
large publishing houses in the United States, with a list peculiarly
noted for the distinction of its authors and the broad scope of its
books.

The Scribners had the foremost theological list of all the publishing
houses; its educational list was exceptionally strong; its musical list
excelled; its fiction represented the leading writers of the day; its
general list was particularly noteworthy; and its foreign department,
importing the leading books brought out in Great Britain and Europe,
was an outstanding feature of the business.  The correspondence
dictated to Bok covered, naturally, all these fields, and a more
remarkable opportunity for self-education was never offered a
stenographer.

Mr. Burlingame was known in the publishing world for his singularly
keen literary appreciation, and was accepted as one of the best judges
of good fiction.  Bok entered the Scribner employ as Mr. Burlingame was
selecting the best short stories published within a decade for a set of
books to be called "Short Stories by American Authors."  The
correspondence for this series was dictated to Bok, and he decided to
read after Mr. Burlingame and thus get an idea of the best fiction of
the day.  So whenever his chief wrote to an author asking for
permission to include his story in the proposed series, Bok immediately
hunted up the story and read it.

Later, when the house decided to start _Scribner's Magazine_, and Mr.
Burlingame was selected to be its editor, all the preliminary
correspondence was dictated to Bok through his employers, and he
received a first-hand education in the setting up of the machinery
necessary for the publication of a magazine.  All this he eagerly
absorbed.

He was again fortunate in that his desk was placed in the advertising
department of the house; and here he found, as manager, an old-time
Brooklyn boy friend with whom he had gone to school, Frank N.
Doubleday, to-day the senior partner of Doubleday, Page and Company.
Bok had been attracted to advertising through his theatre programme and
_Brooklyn Magazine_ experience, and here was presented a chance to
learn the art at first hand and according to the best traditions.  So,
whenever his stenographic work permitted, he assisted Mr. Doubleday in
preparing and placing the advertisements of the books of the house.

Mr. Doubleday was just reviving the publication of a house-organ called
_The Book Buyer_, and, given a chance to help in this, Bok felt he was
getting back into the periodical field, especially since, under Mr.
Doubleday's guidance, the little monthly soon developed into a literary
magazine of very respectable size and generally bookish contents.

The house also issued another periodical, _The Presbyterian Review_, a
quarterly under the editorship of a board of professors connected with
the Princeton and Union Theological Seminaries.  This ponderous-looking
magazine was not composed of what one might, call "light reading," and
as the price of a single copy was eighty cents, and the advertisements
it could reasonably expect were necessarily limited in number, the
periodical was rather difficult to move.  Thus the whole situation at
the Scribners' was adapted to give Edward an all-round training in the
publishing business.  It was an exceptional opportunity.

He worked early and late.  An increase in his salary soon told him that
he was satisfying his employers, and then, when the new _Scribner's
Magazine_ appeared, and a little later Mr. Doubleday was delegated to
take charge of the business end of it, Bok himself was placed in charge
of the advertising department, with the publishing details of the two
periodicals on his hands.

He suddenly found himself directing a stenographer instead of being a
stenographer himself.  Evidently his apprentice days were over.  He
had, in addition, the charge of sending all the editorial copies of the
new books to the press for review, and of keeping a record of those
reviews.  This naturally brought to his desk the authors of the house
who wished to see how the press received their works.

The study of the writers who were interested in following the press
notices of their books, and those who were indifferent to them became a
fascinating game to young Bok.  He soon discovered that the greater the
author the less he seemed to care about his books once they a were
published.  Bok noticed this, particularly, in the case of Robert Louis
Stevenson, whose work had attracted him, but, although he used the most
subtle means to inveigle the author into the office to read the press
notices, he never succeeded.  Stevenson never seemed to have the
slightest interest in what the press said of his books.

One day Mr. Burlingame asked Bok to take some proofs to Stevenson at
his home; thinking it might be a propitious moment to interest the
author in the popular acclaim that followed the publication of _Doctor
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, Bok put a bunch of press notices in his pocket.
He found the author in bed, smoking his inevitable cigarette.

As the proofs were to be brought back, Bok waited, and thus had an
opportunity for nearly two hours to see the author at work.  No man
ever went over his proofs more carefully than did Stevenson; his
corrections were numerous; and sometimes for ten minutes at a time he
would sit smoking and thinking over a single sentence, which, when he
had satisfactorily shaped it in his mind, he would recast on the proof.

Stevenson was not a prepossessing figure at these times.  With his
sallow skin and his black dishevelled hair, with finger-nails which had
been allowed to grow very long, with fingers discolored by tobacco--in
short, with a general untidiness that was all his own, Stevenson, so
Bok felt, was an author whom it was better to read than to see.  And
yet his kindliness and gentleness more than offset the unattractiveness
of his physical appearance.

After one or two visits from Bok, having grown accustomed to him,
Stevenson would discuss some sentence in an article, or read some
amended paragraph out loud and ask whether Bok though it sounded
better.  To pass upon Stevenson as a stylist was, of course, hardly
within Bok's mental reach, so he kept discreetly silent when Stevenson
asked his opinion.

In fact, Bok reasoned it out that the novelist did not really expect an
answer or an opinion, but was at such times thinking aloud.  The mental
process, however, was immensely interesting, particularly when
Stevenson would ask Bok to hand him a book on words lying on an
adjacent table.  "So hard to find just the right word," Stevenson would
say, and Bok got his first realization of the truth of the maxim: "Easy
writing, hard reading; hard writing, easy reading."

On this particular occasion when Stevenson finished, Bok pulled out his
clippings, told the author how his book was being received, and was
selling, what the house was doing to advertise it, explained the
forthcoming play by Richard Mansfield, and then offered the press
notices.

Stevenson took the bundle and held it in his hand.

"That's very nice to tell me all you have," he said, "and I have been
greatly interested.  But you have really told me all about it, haven't
you, so why should I read these notices?  Hadn't I better get busy on
another paper for Mr. Burlingame for the next magazine, else he'll be
after me?  You know how impatient these editors are."  And he handed
back the notices.

Bok saw it was of no use: Stevenson was interested in his work, but,
beyond a certain point, not in the world's reception of it.  Bok's
estimate of the author rose immeasurably.  His attitude was in such
sharp contrast to that of others who came almost daily into the office
to see what the papers said, often causing discomfiture to the young
advertising director by insisting upon taking the notices with them.
But Bok always countered this desire by reminding the author that, of
course, in that case he could not quote from these desirable notices in
his advertisements of the book.  And, invariably, the notices were left
behind!

It now fell to the lot of the young advertiser to arouse the interest
of the public in what were to be some of the most widely read and
best-known books of the day: Robert Louis Stevenson's _Dr. Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde_; Frances Hodgson Burnett's _Little Lord Fauntleroy_; Andrew
Carnegie's _Triumphant Democracy_; Frank R. Stockton's _The Lady, or
the Tiger?_ and his _Rudder Grange_, and a succession of other books.

The advertising of these books keenly sharpened the publicity sense of
the developing advertising director.  One book could best be advertised
by the conventional means of the display advertisement; another, like
_Triumphant Democracy_, was best served by sending out to the
newspapers a "broadside" of pungent extracts; public curiosity in a
story like _The Lady, or the Tiger?_ was, of course, whetted by the
publication of literary notes as to the real dénouement the author had
in mind in writing the story.  Whenever Mr. Stockton came into the
office Bok pumped him dry as to his experiences with the story, such as
when, at a dinner party, his hostess served an ice-cream lady and a
tiger to the author, and the whole company watched which he chose.

"And which did you choose?" asked the advertising director.

"_Et tu, Brute?_" Stockton smilingly replied.  "Well, I'll tell you.  I
asked the butler to bring me another spoon, and then, with a spoon in
each hand, I attacked both the lady and the tiger at the same time."

Once, when Stockton was going to Boston by the night boat, every room
was taken.  The ticket agent recognized the author, and promised to get
him a desirable room if the author would tell which he had had in mind,
the lady or the tiger.

"Produce the room," answered Stockton.

The man did.  Stockton paid for it, and then said:

"To tell you the truth, my friend, I don't know."

And that was the truth, as Mr. Stockton confessed to his friends.  The
idea of the story had fascinated him; when he began it he purposed to
give it a definite ending.  But when he reached the end he didn't know
himself which to produce out of the open door, the lady or the tiger,
"and so," he used to explain, "I made up my mind to leave it hanging in
the air."

When the stories of _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ and _Little Lord
Fauntleroy_ were made into plays, Bok was given an opportunity for an
entirely different kind of publicity.  Both plays were highly
successful; they ran for weeks in succession, and each evening Bok had
circulars of the books in every seat of the theatre; he had a table
filled with the books in the foyer of each theatre; and he bombarded
the newspapers with stories of Mr. Mansfield's method of making the
quick change from one character to the other in the dual role of the
Stevenson play, and with anecdotes about the boy Tommy Russell in Mrs.
Burnett's play.  The sale of the books went merrily on, and kept pace
with the success of the plays.  And it all sharpened the initiative of
the young advertiser and developed his sense for publicity.

One day while waiting in the anteroom of a publishing house to see a
member of the firm, he picked up a book and began to read it.  Since he
had to wait for nearly an hour, he had read a large part of the volume
when he was at last admitted to the private office.  When his business
was finished, Bok asked the publisher why this book was not selling.

"I don't know," replied the publisher.  "We had great hopes for it, but
somehow or other the public has not responded to it."

"Are you sure you are telling the public about it in the right way?"
ventured Bok.

The Scribner advertising had by this time attracted the attention of
the publishing world, and this publisher was entirely ready to listen
to a suggestion from his youthful caller.

"I wish we published it," said Bok.  "I think I could make it a go.
It's all in the book."

"How would you advertise it?" asked the publisher.

Bok promised the publisher he would let him know.  He carried with him
a copy of the book, wrote some advertisements for it, prepared an
attractive "broadside" of extracts, to which the book easily lent
itself, wrote some literary notes about it, and sent the whole
collection to the publisher.  Every particle of "copy" which Bok had
prepared was used, the book began to sell, and within three months it
was the most discussed book of the day.

The book was Edward Bellamy's _Looking Backward_.


Meanwhile, Mr. Beecher's weekly newspaper "syndicate" letter was not
only successful in itself, it made liberal money for the writer and for
its two young publishers, but it served to introduce Edward Bok's
proposed agency to the newspapers under the most favorable conditions.
With one stroke, the attention of newspaper editors had been attracted,
and Edward concluded to take quick advantage of it.  He organized the
Bok Syndicate Press, with offices in New York, and his brother, William
J. Bok, as partner and active manager.

Edward's attention was now turned, for the first time, to women and
their reading habits.  He became interested in the fact that the
American woman was not a newspaper reader.  He tried to find out the
psychology of this, and finally reached the conclusion, on looking over
the newspapers, that the absence of any distinctive material for women
was a factor.  He talked the matter over with several prominent New
York editors, who frankly acknowledged that they would like nothing
better than to interest women, and make them readers of their papers.
But they were equally frank in confessing that they were ignorant both
of what women wanted, and, even if they knew, of where such material
was to be had.  Edward at once saw that here was an open field.  It was
a productive field, since, as woman was the purchasing power, it would
benefit the newspaper enormously in its advertising if it could offer a
feminine clientele.

There was a bright letter of New York gossip published in the _New York
Star_, called "Bab's Babble."  Edward had read it, and saw the
possibility of syndicating this item as a woman's letter from New York.
He instinctively realized that women all over the country would read
it.  He sought out the author, made arrangements with her and with
former Governor Dorscheimer, owner of the paper, and the letter was
sent out to a group of papers.  It was an instantaneous success, and a
syndicate of ninety newspapers was quickly organized.

Edward followed this up by engaging Ella Wheeler Wilcox, then at the
height of her career, to write a weekly letter on women's topics.  This
he syndicated in conjunction with the other letter, and the editors
invariably grouped the two letters.  This, in turn, naturally led to
the idea of supplying an entire page of matter of interest to women.
The plan was proposed to a number of editors, who at once saw the
possibilities in it and promised support.  The young syndicator now
laid under contribution all the famous women writers of the day; he
chose the best of the men writers to write on women's topics; and it
was not long before the syndicate was supplying a page of women's
material.  The newspapers played up the innovation, and thus was
introduced into the newspaper press of the United States the "Woman's
Page."

The material supplied by the Bok Syndicate Press was of the best; the
standard was kept high; the writers were selected from among the most
popular authors of the day; and readability was the cardinal note.  The
women bought the newspapers containing the new page, the advertiser
began to feel the presence of the new reader, and every newspaper that
could not get the rights for the "Bok Page," as it came to be known,
started a "Woman's Page" of its own.  Naturally, the material so
obtained was of an inferior character.  No single newspaper could
afford what the syndicate, with the expense divided among a hundred
newspapers, could pay.  Nor had the editors of these woman's pages
either a standard or a policy.  In desperation they engaged any person
they could to "get a lot of woman's stuff."  It was stuff, and of the
trashiest kind.  So that almost coincident with the birth of the idea
began its abuse and disintegration; the result we see in the
meaningless presentations which pass for "woman's pages" in the
newspaper of to-day.

This is true even of the woman's material in the leading newspapers,
and the reason is not difficult to find.  The average editor has, as a
rule, no time to study the changing conditions of women's interests;
his time is and must be engrossed by the news and editorial pages.  He
usually delegates the Sunday "specials" to some editor who, again, has
little time to study the everchanging women's problems, particularly in
these days, and he relies upon unintelligent advice, or he places his
"woman's page" in the hands of some woman with the comfortable
assurance that, being a woman, she ought to know what interests her sex.

But having given the subject little thought, he attaches minor
importance to the woman's "stuff," regarding it rather in the light of
something that he "must carry to catch the women"; and forthwith he
either forgets it or refuses to give the editor of his woman's page
even a reasonable allowance to spend on her material.  The result is,
of course, inevitable: pages of worthless material.  There is, in fact,
no part of the Sunday newspaper of to-day upon which so much good and
now expensive white paper is wasted as upon the pages marked for the
home, for women, and for children.

Edward Bok now became convinced, from his book-publishing association,
that if the American women were not reading the newspapers, the
American public, as a whole, was not reading the number of books that
it should, considering the intelligence and wealth of the people, and
the cheap prices at which books were sold.  He concluded to see whether
he could not induce the newspapers to give larger and more prominent
space to the news of the book world.

Owing to his constant contact with authors, he was in a peculiarly
fortunate position to know their plans in advance of execution, and he
was beginning to learn the ins and outs of the book-publishing world.
He canvassed the newspapers subscribing to his syndicate features, but
found a disinclination to give space to literary news.  To the average
editor, purely literary features held less of an appeal than did the
features for women.  Fewer persons were interested in books, they
declared; besides, the publishing houses were not so liberal
advertisers as the department stores.  The whole question rested on a
commercial basis.

Edward believed he could convince editors of the public interest in a
newsy, readable New York literary letter, and he prevailed upon the
editor of the _New York Star_ to allow him to supplement the book
reviews of George Parsons Lathrop in that paper by a column of literary
chat called "Literary Leaves."  For a number of weeks he continued to
write this department, and confine it to the New York paper, feeling
that he needed the experience for the acquirement of a readable style,
and he wanted to be sure that he had opened a sufficient number of
productive news channels to ensure a continuous flow of readable
literary information.

Occasionally he sent to an editor here and there what he thought was a
particularly newsy letter just "for his information, not for sale."
The editor of the _Philadelphia Times_ was the first to discover that
his paper wanted the letter, and the _Boston Journal_ followed suit.
Then the editor of the _Cincinnati Times-Star_ discovered the letter in
the _New York Star_, and asked that it be supplied weekly with the
letter.  These newspapers renamed the letter "Bok's Literary Leaves,"
and the feature started on its successful career.




CHAPTER X

THE CHANCES FOR SUCCESS

Edward Bok does not now remember whether the mental picture had been
given him, or whether he had conjured it up for himself; but he
certainly was possessed of the idea, as are so many young men entering
business, that the path which led to success was very difficult: that
it was overfilled with a jostling, bustling, panting crowd, each eager
to reach the goal; and all ready to dispute every step that a young man
should take; and that favoritism only could bring one to the top.

After Bok had been in the world of affairs, he wondered where were
these choked avenues, these struggling masses, these competitors for
every inch of vantage.  Then he gradually discovered that they did not
exist.

In the first place, he found every avenue leading to success wide open
and certainly not overpeopled.  He was surprised how few there were who
really stood in a young man's way.  He found that favoritism was not
the factor that he had been led to suppose.  He realized it existed in
a few isolated cases, but to these every one had pointed and about
these every one had talked until, in the public mind, they had
multiplied in number and assumed a proportion that the facts did not
bear out.

Here and there a relative "played a favorite," but even with the push
and influence behind him "the lucky one," as he was termed, did not
seem to make progress, unless he had merit.  It was not long before Bok
discovered that the possession of sheer merit was the only real factor
that actually counted in any of the places where he had been employed
or in others which he had watched; that business was so constructed and
conducted that nothing else, in the face of competition, could act as
current coin.  And the amazing part of it all to Bok was how little
merit there was.  Nothing astonished him more than the low average
ability of those with whom he worked or came into contact.

He looked at the top, and instead of finding it over-crowded, he was
surprised at the few who had reached there; the top fairly begged for
more to climb its heights.

For every young man, earnest, eager to serve, willing to do more than
he was paid for, he found ten trying to solve the problem of how little
they could actually do for the pay received.

It interested Bok to listen to the talk of his fellow-workers during
luncheon hours and at all other times outside of office hours.  When
the talk did turn on the business with which they were concerned, it
consisted almost entirely of wages, and he soon found that, with
scarcely an exception, every young man was terribly underpaid, and that
his employer absolutely failed to appreciate his work.  It was
interesting, later, when Bok happened to get the angle of the employer,
to discover that, invariably, these same lamenting young men were those
who, from the employer's point of view, were either greatly overpaid or
so entirely worthless as to be marked for early decapitation.

Bok felt that this constant thought of the wages earned or deserved was
putting the cart before the horse; he had schooled himself into the
belief that if he did his work well, and accomplished more than was
expected of him, the question of wages would take care of itself.  But,
according to the talk on every side, it was he who had the cart before
the horse.  Bok had not only tried always to fill the particular job
set for him, but had made it a rule at the same time to study the
position just ahead, to see what it was like, what it demanded, and
then, as the opportunity presented itself, do a part of that job in
addition to his own.  As a stenographer, he tried always to clear off
the day's work before he closed his desk.  This was not always
possible, but he kept it before him as a rule to be followed rather
than violated.

One morning Bok's employer happened to come to the office earlier than
usual, to find the letters he had dictated late in the afternoon before
lying on his desk ready to be signed.

"These are the letters I gave you late yesterday afternoon, are they
not?" asked the employer.

"Yes, sir."

"Must have started early this morning, didn't you?^

"No, sir," answered Bok.  "I wrote them out last evening before I left."

"Like to get your notes written out before they get stale?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good idea," said the employer.

"Yes, sir," answered Bok, "and I think it is even a better idea to get
a day's work off before I take my apron off."

"Well said," answered the employer, and the following payday Bok found
an increase in his weekly envelope.

It is only fair, however, to add here, parenthetically, that it is
neither just nor considerate to a conscientious stenographer for an
employer to delay his dictation until the end of the day's work, when,
merely by judicious management of his affairs and time, he can give his
dictation directly after opening his morning mail.  There are two sides
to every question; but sometimes the side of the stenographer is not
kept in mind by the employer.

Bok found it a uniform rule among his fellow-workers to do exactly the
opposite to his own idea; there was an astonishing unanimity in working
by the clock; where the hour of closing was five o'clock the
preparations began five minutes before, with the hat and overcoat over
the back of the chair ready for the stroke of the hour.  This concert
of action was curiously universal, no "overtime" was ever to be thought
of, and, as occasionally happened when the work did go over the hour,
it was not, to use the mildest term, done with care, neatness, or
accuracy; it was, to use a current phrase, "slammed off."  Every moment
beyond five o'clock in which the worker was asked to do anything was by
just so much an imposition on the part of the employer, and so far as
it could be safely shown, this impression was gotten over to him.

There was an entire unwillingness to let business interfere with any
anticipated pleasure or personal engagement.  The office was all right
between nine and five; one had to be there to earn a living; but after
five, it was not to be thought of for one moment.  The elevators which
ran on the stroke of five were never large enough to hold the throng
which besieged them.

The talk during lunch hour rarely, if ever, turned toward business,
except as said before, when it dealt with underpaid services.  In the
spring and summer it was invariably of baseball, and scores of young
men knew the batting averages of the different players and the standing
of the clubs with far greater accuracy than they knew the standing or
the discounts of the customers of their employers.  In the winter the
talk was all of dancing, boxing, or plays.

It soon became evident to Bok why scarcely five out of every hundred of
the young men whom he knew made any business progress.  They were not
interested; it was a case of a day's work and a day's pay; it was not a
question of how much one could do but how little one could get away
with.  The thought of how well one might do a given thing never seemed
to occur to the average mind.

"Oh, what do you care?" was the favorite expression.  "The boss won't
notice it if you break your back over his work; you won't get any more
pay."

And there the subject was dismissed, and thoroughly dismissed, too.

Eventually, then, Bok learned that the path that led to success was
wide open: the competition was negligible.  There was no jostling.  In
fact, travel on it was just a trifle lonely.  One's fellow-travellers
were excellent company, but they were few!  It was one of Edward Bok's
greatest surprises, but it was also one of his greatest stimulants.  To
go where others could not go, or were loath to go, where at least they
were not, had a tang that savored of the freshest kind of adventure.
And the way was so simple, so much simpler, in fact, than its
avoidance, which called for so much argument, explanation, and
discussion.  One had merely to do all that one could do, a little more
than one was asked or expected to do, and immediately one's head rose
above the crowd and one was in an employer's eye--where it is always so
satisfying for an employee to be!  And as so few heads lifted
themselves above the many, there was never any danger that they would
not be seen.

Of course, Edward Bok had to prove to himself that his conception of
conditions was right.  He felt instinctively that it was, however, and
with this stimulus he bucked the line hard.  When others played, he
worked, fully convinced that his play-time would come later.  Where
others shirked, he assumed.  Where others lagged, he accelerated his
pace.  Where others were indifferent to things around them, he observed
and put away the results for possible use later.  He did not make of
himself a pack-horse; what he undertook he did from interest in it, and
that made it a pleasure to him when to others it was a burden.  He
instinctively reasoned it out that an unpleasant task is never
accomplished by stepping aside from it, but that, unerringly, it will
return later to be met and done.

Obstacles, to Edward Bok, soon became merely difficulties to be
overcome, and he trusted to his instinct to show him the best way to
overcome them.  He soon learned that the hardest kind of work was back
of every success; that nothing in the world of business just happened,
but that everything was brought about, and only in one way--by a
willingness of spirit and a determination to carry through.  He soon
exploded for himself the misleading and comfortable theory of luck; the
only lucky people, he found, were those who worked hard.  To them, luck
came in the shape of what they had earned.  There were exceptions here
and there, as there are to every rule; but the majority of these, he
soon found, were more in the seeming than in the reality.  Generally
speaking--and of course to this rule there are likewise exceptions, or
as the Frenchman said, "All generalizations are false, including this
one"--a man got in this world about what he worked for.

And that became, for himself, the rule of Edward Bok's life.




CHAPTER XI

LAST YEARS IN NEW YORK

From his boyhood days (up to the present writing) Bok was a pronounced
baseball "fan," and there was, too, a baseball team among the Scribner
young men of which he was a part.  This team played, each Saturday
afternoon, a team from another publishing house, and for two seasons it
was unbeatable.  Not only was this baseball aggregation close to the
hearts of the Scribner employees, but, in an important game, the junior
member of the firm played on it and the senior member was a spectator.
Frank N. Doubleday played on first base; William D. Moffat, later of
Moffat, Yard & Company, and now editor of _The Mentor_, was behind the
bat; Bok pitched; Ernest Dressel North, the present authority on rare
editions of books, was in the field, as were also Ray Safford, now a
director in the Scribner corporation, and Owen W. Brewer, at present a
prominent figure in Chicago's book world.  It was a happy group, all
closely banded together in their business interests and in their human
relations as well.

With Scribner's Magazine now in the periodical field, Bok would be
asked on his trips to the publishing houses to have an eye open for
advertisements for that periodical as well.  Hence his education in the
solicitation of advertisements became general, and gave him a
sympathetic understanding of the problems of the advertising solicitor
which was to stand him in good stead when, in his later experience, he
was called upon to view the business problems of a magazine from the
editor's position.  His knowledge of the manufacture of the two
magazines in his charge was likewise educative, as was the fascinating
study of typography which always had, and has today, a wonderful
attraction for him.

It was, however, in connection with the advertising of the general
books of the house, and in his relations with their authors, that Bok
found his greatest interest.  It was for him to find the best manner in
which to introduce to the public the books issued by the house, and the
general study of the psychology of publicity which this called for
attracted Bok greatly.

Although the Scribners did not publish Mark Twain's books, the humorist
was a frequent visitor to the retail store, and occasionally he would
wander back to the publishing department located at the rear of the
store, which was then at 743 Broadway.

Smoking was not permitted in the Scribner offices, and, of course, Mark
Twain was always smoking.  He generally smoked a granulated tobacco
which he kept in a long check bag made of silk and rubber.  When he
sauntered to the back of the Scribner store, he would generally knock
the residue from the bowl of the pipe, take out the stem, place it in
his vest pocket, like a pencil, and drop the bowl into the bag
containing the granulated tobacco.  When he wanted to smoke again
(which was usually five minutes later) he would fish out the bowl, now
automatically filled with tobacco, insert the stem, and strike a light.
One afternoon as he wandered into Bok's office, he was just putting his
pipe away.  The pipe, of the corncob variety, was very aged and black.
Bok asked him whether it was the only pipe he had.

"Oh, no," Mark answered, "I have several.  But they're all like this.
I never smoke a new corncob pipe.  A new pipe irritates the throat.  No
corncob pipe is fit for anything until it has been used at least a
fortnight."

"How do you break in a pipe, then?" asked Bok.

"That's the trick," answered Mark Twain.  "I get a cheap man--a man who
doesn't amount to much, anyhow: who would be as well, or better,
dead--and pay him a dollar to break in the pipe for me.  I get him to
smoke the pipe for a couple of weeks, then put in a new stem, and
continue operations as long as the pipe holds together."

Bok's newspaper syndicate work had brought him into contact with Fanny
Davenport, then at the zenith of her career as an actress.  Miss
Davenport, or Mrs. Melbourne McDowell as she was in private life, had
never written for print; but Bok, seeing that she had something to say
about her art and the ability to say it, induced her to write for the
newspapers through his syndicate.  The actress was overjoyed to have
revealed to her a hitherto unsuspected gift; Bok published her articles
successfully, and gave her a publicity that her press agent had never
dreamed of.  Miss Davenport became interested in the young publisher,
and after watching the methods which he employed in successfully
publishing her writings, decided to try to obtain his services as her
assistant manager.  She broached the subject, offered him a five years'
contract for forty weeks' service, with a minimum of fifteen weeks each
year to spend in or near New York, at a salary, for the first year, of
three thousand dollars, increasing annually until the fifth year, when
he was to receive sixty-four hundred dollars.

Bok was attracted to the work: he had never seen the United States, was
anxious to do so, and looked upon the chance as a good opportunity.
Miss Davenport had the contract made out, executed it, and then, in
high glee, Bok took it home to show it to his mother.  He had reckoned
without question upon her approval, only to meet with an immediate and
decided negative to the proposition as a whole, general and specific.
She argued that the theatrical business was not for him; and she saw
ahead and pointed out so strongly the mistake he was making that he
sought Miss Davenport the next day and told her of his mother's stand.
The actress suggested that she see the mother; she did, that day, and
she came away from the interview a wiser if a sadder woman.  Miss
Davenport frankly told Bok that with such an instinctive objection as
his mother seemed to have, he was right to follow her advice and the
contract was not to be thought of.

It is difficult to say whether this was or was not for Bok the
turning-point which comes in the life of every young man.  Where the
venture into theatrical life would have led him no one can, of course,
say.  One thing is certain: Bok's instinct and reason both failed him
in this instance.  He believes now that had his venture into the
theatrical field been temporary or permanent, the experiment, either
way, would have been disastrous.

Looking back and viewing the theatrical profession even as it was in
that day (of a much higher order than now), he is convinced he would
never have been happy in it.  He might have found this out in a year or
more, after the novelty of travelling had worn off, and asked release
from his contract; in that case he would have broken his line of
progress in the publishing business.  From whatever viewpoint he has
looked back upon this, which he now believes to have been the crisis in
his life, he is convinced that his mother's instinct saved him from a
grievous mistake.

The Scribner house, in its foreign-book department, had imported some
copies of Bourrienne's _Life of Napoleon_, and a set had found its way
to Bok's desk for advertising purposes.  He took the books home to
glance them ever, found himself interested, and sat up half the night
to read them.  Then he took the set to the editor of the New York Star,
and suggested that such a book warranted a special review, and offered
to leave the work for the literary editor.

"You have read the books?" asked the editor.

"Every word," returned Bok.

"Then, why don't you write the review?" suggested the editor.

This was a new thought to Bok.  "Never wrote a review," he said.

"Try it," answered the editor.  "Write a column."

"A column wouldn't scratch the surface of this book," suggested the
embryo reviewer.

"Well, give it what it is worth," returned the editor.

Bok did.  He wrote a page of the paper.

"Too much, too much," said the editor.  "Heavens, man, we've got to get
some news into this paper."

"Very well," returned the reviewer.  "Read it, and cut it where you
like.  That's the way I see the book."

And next Sunday the review appeared, word for word, as Bok had written
it.  His first review had successfully passed!

But Bok was really happiest in that part of his work which concerned
itself with the writing of advertisements.  The science of
advertisement writing, which meant to him the capacity to say much in
little space, appealed strongly.  He found himself more honestly
attracted to this than to the writing of his literary letter, his
editorials, or his book reviewing, of which he was now doing a good
deal.  He determined to follow where his bent led; he studied the
mechanics of unusual advertisements wherever he saw them; he eagerly
sought a knowledge of typography and its best handling in an
advertisement, and of the value and relation of illustrations to text.
He perceived that his work along these lines seemed to give
satisfaction to his employers, since they placed more of it in his
hands to do; and he sought in every way to become proficient in the art.

To publishers whose advertisements he secured for the periodicals in
his charge, he made suggestions for the improvement of their
announcements, and found his suggestions accepted.  He early saw the
value of white space as one of the most effective factors in
advertising; but this was a difficult argument, he soon found, to
convey successfully to others.  A white space in an advertisement was
to the average publisher something to fill up; Bok saw in it something
to cherish for its effectiveness.  But he never got very far with his
idea: he could not convince (perhaps because he failed to express his
ideas convincingly) his advertisers of what he felt and believed so
strongly.

An occasion came in which he was permitted to prove his contention.
The Scribners had published Andrew Carnegie's volume, _Triumphant
Democracy_, and the author desired that some special advertising should
be done in addition to that allowed by the appropriation made by the
house.  To Bok's grateful ears came the injunction from the steel
magnate: "Use plenty of white space."  In conjunction with Mr.
Doubleday, Bok prepared and issued this extra advertising, and for
once, at least, the wisdom of using white space was demonstrated.  But
it was only a flash in the pan.  Publishers were unwilling to pay for
"unused space," as they termed it.  Each book was a separate unit,
others argued: it was not like advertising one article continuously in
which money could be invested; and only a limited amount could be spent
on a book which ran its course, even at its best, in a very short time.

And, rightly or wrongly, book advertising has continued much along the
same lines until the present day.  In fact, in no department of
manufacturing or selling activity has there been so little progress
during the past fifty years as in bringing books to the notice of the
public.  In all other lines, the producer has brought his wares to the
public, making it easier and still easier for it to obtain his goods,
while the public, if it wants a book, must still seek the book instead
of being sought by it.

That there is a tremendous unsupplied book demand in this country there
is no doubt: the wider distribution and easier access given to
periodicals prove this point.  Now and then there has been tried an
unsupported or not well-thought-out plan for bringing books to a public
not now reading them, but there seems little or no understanding of the
fact that there lies an uncultivated field of tremendous promise to the
publisher who will strike out on a new line and market his books, so
that the public will not have to ferret out a book-store or wind
through the maze of a department store.  The American reading public is
not the book-reading public that it should be or could be made to be;
but the habit must be made easy for it to acquire.  Books must be
placed where the public can readily get at them.  It will not, of its
own volition, seek them.  It did not do so with magazines; it will not
do so with books.

In the meanwhile, Bok's literary letter had prospered until it was now
published in some forty-five newspapers, One of these was the
_Philadelphia Times_.  In that paper, each week, the letter had been
read by Mr. Cyrus H. K. Curtis, the owner and publisher of _The Ladies'
Home Journal_.  Mr. Curtis had decided that he needed an editor for his
magazine, in order to relieve his wife, who was then editing it, and he
fixed upon the writer of _Literary Leaves_ as his man.  He came to New
York, consulted Will Carleton, the poet, and found that while the
letter was signed by William J. Bok, it was actually written by his
brother who was with the Scribners.  So he sought Bok out there.

The publishing house had been advertising in the Philadelphia magazine,
so that the visit of Mr. Curtis was not an occasion for surprise.  Mr.
Curtis told Bok he had read his literary letter in the _Philadelphia
Times_, and suggested that perhaps he might write a similar department
for _The Ladies' Home Journal_.  Bok saw no reason why he should not,
and told Mr. Curtis so, and promised to send over a trial instalment.
The Philadelphia publisher then deftly went on, explained editorial
conditions in his magazine, and, recognizing the ethics of the occasion
by not offering Bok another position while he was already occupying
one, asked him if he knew the man for the place.

"Are you talking at me or through me?" asked Bok.

"Both," replied Mr. Curtis.

This was in April of 1889.

Bok promised Mr. Curtis he would look over the field, and meanwhile he
sent over to Philadelphia the promised trial "literary gossip"
instalment.  It pleased Mr. Curtis, who suggested a monthly department,
to which Bok consented.  He also turned over in his mind the wisdom of
interrupting his line of progress with the Scribners, and in New York,
and began to contemplate the possibilities in Philadelphia and the work
there.

He gathered a collection of domestic magazines then published, and
looked them over to see what was already in the field.  Then he began
to study himself, his capacity for the work, and the possibility of
finding it congenial.  He realized that it was absolutely foreign to
his Scribner work; that it meant a radical departure.  But his work
with his newspaper syndicate naturally occurred to him, and he studied
it with a view of its adaptation to the field of the Philadelphia
magazine.

His next step was to take into his confidence two or three friends
whose judgment he trusted and discuss the possible change.  Without an
exception, they advised against it.  The periodical had no standing,
they argued; Bok would be out of sympathy with its general atmosphere
after his Scribner environment; he was now in the direct line of
progress in New York publishing houses; and, to cap the climax, they
each argued in turn, he would be buried in Philadelphia: New York was
the centre, etc., etc.

More than any other single argument, this last point destroyed Bok's
faith in the judgment of his friends.  He had had experience enough to
realize that a man could not be buried in any city, provided he had the
ability to stand out from his fellow-men.  He knew from his
biographical reading that cream will rise to the surface anywhere, in
Philadelphia as well as in New York: it all depended on whether the
cream was there: it was up to the man.  Had he within him that
peculiar, subtle something that, for the want of a better phrase, we
call the editorial instinct?  That was all there was to it, and that
decision had to be his and his alone!

A business trip for the Scribners now calling him West, Bok decided to
stop at Philadelphia, have a talk with Mr. Curtis, and look over his
business plant.  He did this, and found Mr. Curtis even more desirous
than before to have him consider the position.  Bok's instinct was
strongly in favor of an acceptance.  A natural impulse moved him,
without reasoning, to action.  Reasoning led only to a cautious mental
state, and caution is a strong factor in the Dutch character.  The
longer he pursued a conscious process of reasoning, the farther he got
from the position.  But the instinct remained strong.

On his way back from the West, he stopped in Philadelphia again to
consult his friend, George W. Childs; and here he found the only person
who was ready to encourage him to make the change.

Bok now laid the matter before his mother, in whose feminine instinct
he had supreme confidence.  With her, he met with instant
discouragement.  But in subsequent talks he found that her opposition
was based not upon the possibilities inherent in the position, but on a
mother's natural disinclination to be separated from one of her sons.
In the case of Fanny Davenport's offer the mother's instinct was strong
against the proposition itself.  But in the present instance it was the
mother's love that was speaking; not her instinct or judgment.

Bok now consulted his business associates, and, to a man, they
discouraged the step, but almost invariably upon the argument that it
was suicidal to leave New York.  He had now a glimpse of the truth that
there is no man so provincially narrow as the untravelled New Yorker
who believes in his heart that the sun rises in the East River and sets
in the North River.

He realized more keenly than ever before that the decision rested with
him alone.  On September 1, 1889, Bok wrote to Mr. Curtis, accepting
the position in Philadelphia; and on October 13 following he left the
Scribners, where he had been so fortunate and so happy, and, after a
week's vacation, followed where his instinct so strongly led, but where
his reason wavered.

On October 20, 1889, Edward Bok became the editor of _The Ladies' Home
Journal_.




CHAPTER XII

SUCCESSFUL EDITORSHIP

There is a popular notion that the editor of a woman's magazine should
be a woman.  At first thought, perhaps, this sounds logical.  But it is
a curious fact that by far the larger number of periodicals for women,
the world over, are edited by men; and where, as in some cases, a woman
is the proclaimed editor, the direction of the editorial policy is
generally in the hands of a man, or group of men, in the background.
Why this is so has never been explained, any more than why the majority
of women's dressmakers are men; why music, with its larger appeal to
women, has been and is still being composed, largely, by men, and why
its greatest instrumental performers are likewise men; and why the
church, with its larger membership of women, still has, as it always
has had, men for its greatest preachers.

In fact, we may well ponder whether the full editorial authority and
direction of a modern magazine, either essentially feminine in its
appeal or not, can safely be entrusted to a woman when one considers
how largely executive is the nature of such a position, and how
thoroughly sensitive the modern editor must be to the hundred and one
practical business matters which to-day enter into and form so large a
part of the editorial duties.  We may question whether women have as
yet had sufficient experience in the world of business to cope
successfully with the material questions of a pivotal editorial
position.  Then, again, it is absolutely essential in the condu

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