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.
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