a letter came almost every month until that last little note, late in 1892: [figure]
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 Emersons essays was always in Edwards 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 weeks 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