One of the most attractive and inspiring things about Richard Harding
Davis was the simple, almost matter-of-course way in which he put into
practice his views of life--in which he acted, and in fact WAS, what he
believed. With most of us, to have opinions as to what is the right
thing to do is at the best to worry a good deal as to whether we are
doing it; at the worst to be conscious of doubts as to whether it is a
sufficient code, or perhaps whether it isn't beyond us. Davis seemed
to have neither of these wasters of strength. He had certain simple,
clean, manly convictions as to how a man should act; apparently quite
without self-consciousness in this respect, whatever little mannerisms
or points of pride he may have had in others--fewer than most men of
his success and fastidiousness--he went ahead and did accordingly,
untormented by any alternatives or casuistries, which for him did not
seem to exist. He was so genuinely straightforward that he could not
sophisticate even himself, as almost every man occasionally does under
temptation. He, at least, never needed to be told
"Go put your creed into your deed
Nor speak with double tongue."
It is so impossible not to think first of the man, as the testimony of
every one who knew him shows, that those who have long had occasion to
watch and follow his work, not merely with enjoyment but somewhat
critically, may well look upon any detailed discussion of it as
something to be kept till later. But there is more to be said than to
recall the unfailing zest of it, the extraordinary freshness of eye,
the indomitable youthfulness and health of spirit--all the qualities
that we associate with Davis himself. It was serious work in a sense
that only the more thoughtful of its critics had begun of late to
comprehend. It had not inspired a body of disciples like Kipling's,
but it had helped to clear the air and to give a new proof of the
vitality of certain ideals--even of a few of the simpler ones now
outmoded in current masterpieces; and it was at its best far truer in
an artistic sense than it was the fashion of its easy critics to allow.
Whether Davis could or would have written a novel of the higher rank is
a useless question now; he himself, who was a critic of his own work
without illusions or affectation, used to say that he could not; but it
is certain that in the early part of "Captain Macklin" he displayed a
power really Thackerayan in kind.
Of his descriptive writing there need be no fear of speaking with
extravagance; he had made himself, especially in his later work,
through long practice and his inborn instinct for the significant and
the fresh aspect, quite the best of all contemporary correspondents and
reporters; and his rivals in the past could be easily numbered.