To the college boy of the early nineties Richard Harding Davis was the
"beau ideal of jeunesse doree," a sophisticated heart of gold. He was
of that college boy's own age, but already an editor--already
publishing books! His stalwart good looks were as familiar to us as
were those of our own football captain; we knew his face as we knew the
face of the President of the United States, but we infinitely preferred
Davis's. When the Waldorf was wondrously completed, and we cut an
exam. in Cuneiform Inscriptions for an excursion to see the world at
lunch in its new magnificence, and Richard Harding Davis came into the
Palm Room--then, oh, then, our day was radiant! That was the top of
our fortune: we could never have hoped for so much. Of all the great
people of every continent, this was the one we most desired to see.
The boys of those days left college to work, to raise families, to grow
grizzled; but the glamour remained about Davis; HE never grew grizzled.
Youth was his great quality.
All his writing has the liveliness of springtime; it stirs with an
unsuppressible gayety, and it has the attraction which companionship
with him had: there is never enough. He could be sharp; he could write
angrily and witheringly; but even when he was fiercest he was buoyant,
and when his words were hot they were not scalding but rather of a dry,
clean indignation with things which he believed could, if they would,
be better. He never saw evil but as temporary.
Following him through his books, whether he wrote of home or carried
his kind, stout heart far, far afield, we see an American writing to
Americans. He often told us about things abroad in terms of New York;
and we have all been to New York, so he made for us the pictures he
wished us to see. And when he did not thus use New York for his colors
he found other means as familiar to us and as suggestive; he always
made us SEE. What claims our thanks in equal measure, he knew our kind
of curiosity so well that he never failed to make us see what we were
most anxious to see. He knew where our dark spots were, cleared up the
field of vision, and left us unconfused. This discernment of our
needs, and this power of enlightening and pleasuring his reader, sprang
from seeds native in him. They were, as we say, gifts; for he always
had them but did not make them. He was a national figure at
twenty-three. He KNEW HOW, before he began.
Youth called to youth: all ages read him, but the young men and young
women have turned to him ever since his precocious fame made him their
idol. They got many things from him, but above all they live with a
happier bravery because of him. Reading the man beneath the print,
they found their prophet and gladly perceived that a prophet is not
always cowled and bearded, but may be a gallant young gentleman. This
one called merrily to them in his manly voice; and they followed him.
He bade them see that pain is negligible, that fear is a joke, and that
the world is poignantly interesting, joyously lovable.
They will always follow him.