Almost the first letter I received after I undertook to make a living
by writing for magazines was signed with the name of Richard Harding
Davis. I barely knew him; practically we were strangers; but if he had
been my own brother he could not have written more generously or more
kindly than he did write in that letter. He, a famous writer, had gone
out of his way to speak words of encouragement to me, an unknown
writer; had taken the time and the pains out of a busy life to cheer a
beginner in the field where he had had so great a measure of success.
When I came to know him better, I found out that such acts as these
were characteristic of Richard Harding Davis. The world knew him as
one of the most vivid and versatile and picturesque writers that our
country has produced in the last half-century, but his friends knew him
as one of the kindest and gentlest and most honest and most unselfish
of men--a real human being, firm in his convictions, steadfast in his
affections, loyal to the ideals by which he held, but tolerant always
in his estimates of others.
He may or may not have been a born writer; sometimes I doubt whether
there is such a thing as a born writer. But this much I do know--he
was a born gentleman if ever there was one.
As a writer his place is assured. But always I shall think of him as
he was in his private life--a typical American, a lovable companion,
and a man to the tips of his fingers.