COLLEGE DAYS
In the fall of 1882 Richard entered Lehigh, but the first year of his
college life varied very little from the one he had spent in the
preparatory school. During that year he had met most of the upper
classmen, and the only difference was that he could now take an active
instead of a friendly interest in the life and the sports of the
college. Also he had formed certain theories which he promptly
proceeded to put into practical effect. Perhaps the most conspicuous
of these was his belief that cane-rushes and hazing were wholly
unnecessary and barbarous customs, and should have no place in the
college of his day. Against the former he spoke at college meetings,
and wrote long letters to the local papers decrying the custom. His
stand against hazing was equally vehement, and he worked hand in hand
with the faculty to eradicate it entirely from the college life. That
his stand was purely for a principle and not from any fear of personal
injury, I think the following letter to his father will show:
BETHLEHEM, February 1882.
DEAR DAD:
You may remember a conversation we had at Squan about hazing in which
you said it was a very black-guardly thing and a cowardly thing. I
didn't agree with you, but when I saw how it really was and how silly
and undignified it was, besides being brutal, I thought it over and
changed my mind completely, agreeing with you in every respect. A
large number of our class have been hazed, taking it as a good joke,
and have been laughed at by the whole college. I talked to the boys
about it, and said what I would do and so on, without much effect.
Wednesday a junior came to me, and told me I was to be hazed as I left
the Opera House Friday night. After that a great many came to me and
advised and warned me as to what I should do. I decided to get about
fifty of our class outside and then fight it out; that was before I
changed my mind. As soon as I did I regretted it very much, but, as it
turned out, the class didn't come, so I was alone, as I wished to be.
You see, I'd not a very good place here; the fellows looked on me as a
sort of special object of ridicule, on account of the hat and cane,
walk, and so on, though I thought I'd got over that by this time. The
Opera House was partly filled with college men, a large number of
sophomores and a few upper class men. It was pretty generally known I
was going to have a row, and that brought them as much as the show.
Poor Ruff was in agony all day. He supposed I'd get into the fight,
and he knew he'd get in, too, sooner or later. If he did he'd be held
and not be able to do anything, and then the next day be blamed by the
whole college for interfering in a class matter. He hadn't any money
to get into the show, and so wandered around outside in the rain in a
great deal more excited state than I was. Howe went all over town
after putting on his old clothes, in case of personal damage, in search
of freshmen who were at home out of the wet. As I left the building a
man grabbed me by my arm, and the rest, with the seniors gathered
around; the only freshman present, who was half scared to death, clung
as near to me as possible. I withdrew my arm and faced them. "If this
means hazing," I said, "I'm not with you. There's not enough men here
to haze me, but there's enough to thrash me, and I'd rather be thrashed
than hazed." You see, I wanted them to understand exactly how I looked
at it, and they wouldn't think I was simply hotheaded and stubborn. I
was very cool about it all. They broke in with all sorts of
explanations; hazing was the last thing they had thought of. No,
indeed, Davis, old fellow, you're mistaken. I told them if that was
so, all right, I was going home. I saw several of my friends in the
crowd waiting for me, but as I didn't want them to interfere, I said
nothing, and they did not recognize me. When among the crowd of
sophomores, the poor freshman made a last effort, he pulled me by the
coat and begged me to come with him. I said no, I was going home.
When I reached the next corner I stopped. "I gave you fair warning,
keep off. I tell you I'll strike the first man, the first one, that
touches me." Then the four who had been appointed to seize me jumped
on me, and I only got one good blow in before they had me down in the
gutter and were beating me on the face and head. I put my hands across
my face, and so did not get any hard blows directly in the face. They
slipped back in a moment, and when I was ready I scrambled up pretty
wet and muddy, and with my face stinging where they had struck. It had
all been done so quickly, and there was such a large crowd coming from
the theatre, that, of course, no one saw it. When I got up there was a
circle all around me. They hadn't intended to go so far. The men,
except those four who had beaten me, were rather ashamed and wished
they were out of it. I turned to Emmerich, a postgraduate, and told
him to give me room. "Now," I said, "you're not able to haze me, and I
can't thrash twelve of you, but I'll fight any one man you bring out."
I asked for the man that struck me, and named another, but there was no
response.
The upper classmen, who had just arrived, called out that was fair, and
they'd see it fair. Goodnough, Purnell and Douglas, who don't like me
much, either. Ruff was beside me by this time.
He hadn't seen anything of it, and did not get there until he heard me
calling for a fair chance and challenging the class for a man. I
called out again, the second time, and still no one came, so I took
occasion to let them know why I had done as I did in a short speech to
the crowd. I said I was a peaceable fellow, thought hazing silly, and
as I never intended to haze myself, I didn't intend any one to haze me.
Then I said again, "This is the third time, will one of your men fight
this fair? I can't fight twelve of you." Just then two officers who
had called on some mill-hands, who are always dying for a fight, and a
citizen to help them, burst into the crowd of students, shouldering
them around like sheep until they got to me, when one of them put his
arm around me, and said, "I don't know anything about this crowd, but
I'll see you're protected, sir. I'll give 'em fair play." One officer
got hold of Ruff and pretty near shook him to pieces until I had to
interfere and explain. They were for forming a body-guard, and were
loud in their denunciations of the college, and declaring they'd see me
through if I was a stranger to 'em.
Two or three of the sophomores, when they saw how things were going,
set up a yell, but Griffin struck out and sent one of them flying one
way and his hat another, so the yells ended. Howe and Murray Stuart
took me up to their rooms, and Ruff went off for beefsteak for my eye,
and treated the crowd who had come to the rescue, at Dixon's, to beer.
The next day was Saturday, and as there was to be a meeting of the
Athletic Association, of course, I wanted to show up. The fellows all
looked at my eye pretty hard and said nothing. I felt pretty sure that
the sympathy was all with me.
Four men are elected from the college to be on the athletic committee.
They can be nominated by any one, though generally it is done by a man
in their own class. We had agreed the day before to vote for Tolman
for our class, so when the president announced nominations were in
order for the freshmen class, Tolman was instantly nominated. At the
same time one of the leading sophomores jumped up and nominated Mr.
Davis, and a number of men from the same class seconded it. I knew
every one in the college knew of what had happened, and especially the
sophomores, so I was, of course, very much surprised. I looked
unconscious, though, and waited. One of the seniors asked that the
nominees should stand up, as they didn't know their names only their
faces. As each man rose he was hissed and groaned down again. When I
stood up the sophomores burst into a yell and clapped and stamped,
yelling, "Davis! Davis! vote for D!" until I sat down. As I had
already decided to nominate Tolman, I withdrew my name from the
nominees, a movement which was received by loud cries of "No! No!"
from the sophs. So, you see, Dad, I did as you said, as I thought was
right, and came out well indeed. You see, I am now the hero of the
hour, every one in town knows it, and every one congratulates me, and,
"Well done, me boy," as Morrow '83 said, seems to be the idea, one gets
taken care of in this world if you do what's the right thing, if it is
only a street fight. In fact, as one of the seniors said, I've made
five friends where I had one before. The sophs are ashamed and sorry,
as their conduct in chapel, which was more marked, than I made it,
shows. I've nothing to show for it but a red mark under the eye, and
so it is the best thing that could possibly have happened. Poor Ruff
hugged me all the way home, and I've started out well in a good way, I
think, though not a very logical one.
Uncle says to tell you that my conduct has his approval throughout.
DICK.
To which letter my father promptly replied:
PHILADELPHIA. February 25th, 1882.
DEAR OLD BOY:
I'm glad the affair ended so well. I don't want you to fight, but if
you have to fight a cuss like that do it with all your might, and don't
insist that either party shall too strictly observe the Markis O'
Queensbury rules. Hit first and hardest so that thine adversary shall
beware of you.
DAD.
At that time the secret societies played a very important part in the
college life at Lehigh, and while I do not believe that Richard shared
the theory of some of the students that they were a serious menace to
the social fabric, he was quite firm in his belief that it was
inadvisable to be a member of any fraternity. In a general way he did
not like the idea of secrecy even in its mildest form, and then, as
throughout his life, he refused to join any body that would in any way
limit his complete independence of word or action. In connection with
this phase of his college life I quote from an appreciation which M. A.
De W. Howe, one of Richard's best friends both at college and in
after-life, wrote for The Lehigh Burr at the time of my brother's death:
"To the credit of the perceptive faculty of undergraduates, it ought to
be said that the classmates and contemporaries of Richard Harding Davis
knew perfectly well, while he and they were young together, that in him
Lehigh had a son so marked in his individuality, so endowed with
talents and character that he stood quite apart from the other
collegians of his day. Prophets were as rare in the eighties as they
have always been, before and since, and nobody could have foreseen that
the name and work of Dick Davis would long before his untimely death,
indeed within a few years from leaving college, be better known
throughout the world than those of any other Lehigh man. We who knew
him in his college days could not feel the smallest surprise that he
won himself quickly a brilliant name, and kept a firm hold upon it to
the last.
"What was it that made him so early a marked man? I think it was the
spirit of confidence and enthusiasm which turned every enterprise he
undertook into an adventure,--the brave and humorous playing of the
game of life, the true heart, the wholesome body and soul of my friend
and classmate. He did not excel in studies or greatly, in athletics.
But in his own field, that of writing, he was so much better than the
rest of us that no one of his fellow-editors of the Epitome or Burr
needed to be considered in comparison with him. No less, in spite of
his voluntary nonmembership in the fraternities of his day, was he a
leader in the social activities of the University. The 'Arcadian Club'
devoted in its beginnings to the 'pipes, books, beer and gingeralia' of
Davis's song about it and the 'Mustard and Cheese' were his creations.
In all his personal relationships he was the most amusing and
stimulating of companions. With garb and ways of unique
picturesqueness, rarer even in college communities a generation ago
than at present, it was inevitable that he sometimes got himself
laughed at as well as with. But what did it all matter, even then?
To-day it adds a glow of color to what would be in any case a vivid,
deeply valued memory.
"It is hard to foresee in youth what will come most sharply and
permanently in the long run. After all these years it is good to find
that Davis and what his companionship gave one hold their place with
the strongest influences of Lehigh."
But Richard was naturally gregarious and at heart had a great fondness
for clubs and social gatherings. Therefore, having refused the offer
of several fraternities that did him the honor to ask him to become a
member, it was necessary for him to form a few clubs that held
meetings, but no secrets. Perhaps the most successful of these were
"The Mustard and Cheese," a dramatic club devoted to the presentation
of farces and musical comedies, and The Arcadia Club, to the
fortnightly meetings of which he devoted much time and thought. The
following letter to his father will give some idea of the scope of the
club, which, as in the case of "The Mustard and Cheese," gained a
permanent and important place in the social life of Lehigh.
DEAR DAD:
We have started the best sort of a club up here which I am anxious to
tell you of. It consists of a spread, net price of which will be about
30 cents each, every two or three weeks. Only six fellows belong and
those the best of the College. Purnell, Haines and myself founded it.
I chose Charley, Purnell, Reeves, Haines and Howe. We will meet
Saturday nights at 9 so as not to interfere with our work, and sing,
read, eat and box until midnight. It is called the "Pipe and Bowl,"
and is meant to take the place that The Hasty Pudding, Hammer and Tongs
and Mermaid do at other colleges. Two of us are to invite two
outsiders in turn each meeting. We will hope to have Dad a member,
honorary, of course, when we can persuade him to give us a night off
with his company. We want to combine a literary feature and so will
have selected readings to provoke discussions after the pipes are lit.
The men are very enthusiastic about it and want to invite Mr. Allen and
you and every one that they can make an honorary member of immediately.
It was first as an associate editor and afterward as editor-in-chief of
the college paper, The Lehigh Burr, that Richard found his greatest
pleasure and interest during his three years at Lehigh. In addition to
his editorial duties he wrote a very great part of every issue of the
paper, and his contributions included short stories, reports of news
events, editorials, and numerous poems.
As, after his life at college, Richard dropped verse as a mode of
expression, I reprint two of the poems which show him in the lighter
vein of those early days.
A COMMENCEMENT IDYL
"I'm a Freshman who has ended his first year,
But I'm new;
And I do whate'er the Juniors, whom I fear,
Bid me do.
Under sudden showers I thrive;
To be bad and bold I strive,
But they ask--'Is it alive?'
So they do.
I'm a Sophomore who has passed off his exams,
Let me loose!
With a mark as high as any other man's,
As obtuse
I'm fraternal. I am Jolly.
I am seldom melancholy
And to bone I think is folly,
What's the use?
I'm a Junior whom exams. have left forlorn,
Flunked me dead;
So I'll keep the town awake 'till early morn;
Paint it red.
At class-meetings I'm a kicker,
Take no water with my liquor,
And a dumb-bell's not thicker
Than my head.
I'm a Senior whose diploma's within reach,
Eighty-four.
On Commencement Day you'll hear my maiden-speech;
I will soar!
I got through without condition;
I'm a mass of erudition;
Do you know of a position!"
OUR STREET
"Our street is still and silent,
Grass grows from curb to curb,
No baker's bells
With jangling knells
Our studious minds disturb.
No organ grinders ever call,
No hucksters mar our peace;
For traffic shuns our neighborhood
And leaves us to our ease.
But now it lives and brightens,
Assumes a livelier hue;
The pavements wide,
On either side,
Would seem to feel it too.
You might not note the difference,
The change from grave to gay,
But I can tell, and know full well,
Priscilla walks our way."
Shortly after his return to college Richard celebrated his nineteenth
birthday, and received these letters from his father and mother:
April 17th, 1883.
MY DEAR BOY:
When I was thinking what I could give to you to-morrow, I remembered
the story of Herder, who when he was old and weak and they brought him
food and wine asked for "a great thought to quicken him."
So I have written some old sayings for you that have helped me. Maybe,
this year, or some other year, when I am not with you, they may give
you, sometimes, comfort and strength.
God bless you my son--
YOUR OLD MOTHER
who loves you dearly--dearly.
THE PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER
PHILADELPHIA, April 17th, 1883.
MY DEAR BOY:
You are to be nineteen years old on Wednesday. After two years more
you will be a man. You are so manly and good a boy that I could not
wish you to change in any serious or great thing. You have made us
very happy through being what you have been, what you are. You fill us
with hope of your future virtue and usefulness.
To be good is the best thing of all; it counts for more than anything
else in the world. We are very grateful that you have even in youth
been wise enough to choose the right road. You will find it not easy
to keep upon it always, but remember if you do get off struggle back to
it. I do not know but I think God loves the effort to do as well as
the act done.
I congratulate you my dear son, on your new birthday. I wish you
health, happiness and God's loving care. May he bless you my son
forever. I enclose a trifle for your pleasure. My love to you always,
but God bless you dear Dick.
DAD.
In the fall of 1885, Richard decided to leave Lehigh and go to John
Hopkins University, where he took a special course in such studies as
would best benefit him in the career which he had now carefully
planned. During this year in Baltimore Richard's letters show that he
paid considerable attention to such important subjects as political
economy and our own labor problems, but they also show that he did not
neglect football or the lighter social diversions. In a short space of
time he had made many friends, was very busy going to dinners and
dances, and had fallen in love with an entirely new set of maids and
matrons. Richard had already begun to send contributions to the
magazines, and an occasional acceptance caused him the satisfaction
common to all beginners. It was in regard to one of these early
contributions that my mother wrote Richard the following letter:
PHILADELPHIA
January 1887.
DEAR BOY:
What has become of The Current? It has not come yet. If it has
suspended publication be sure and get your article back. You must not
destroy a single page you write. You will find every idea of use to
you hereafter.
Sometimes I am afraid you think I don't take interest enough in your
immediate success now with the articles you send. But I've had thirty
years experience and I know how much that sort of success depends on
the articles suiting the present needs of the magazine, and also on the
mood of the editor when he reads it.
Besides--except for your own disappointment--I know it would be better
if you would not publish under your own name for a little while. Dr.
Holland--who had lots of literary shrewdness both as writer and
publisher--used to say for a young man or woman to rush into print was
sure ruin to their lasting fame. They either compromised their
reputations by inferior work or they made a great hit and never played
up to it, afterwards, in public opinion.
Now my dear old man this sounds like awfully cold comfort. But it is
the wisest idea your mother has got. I confess I have GREAT faith in
you--and I try to judge you as if you were not my son. I think you are
going to take a high place among American authors, but I do not think
you are going to do it by articles like that you sent to The Current.
The qualities which I think will bring it to you, you don't seem to
value at all. They are your dramatic eye. I mean your quick
perception of character and of the way character shows itself in looks,
tones, dress, etc., and in your keen sympathy--with all kinds of
people--Now, these are the requisites for a novelist. Added to that
your humour.
You ought to make a novelist of the first class. But you must not
expect to do it this week or next. A lasting, real success takes time,
and patient, steady work. Read Boz's first sketches of "London Life"
and compare them with "Sydney Carton" or "David Copperfield" and you
will see what time and hard work will do to develop genius.
I suppose you will wonder why I am moved to say all this? It is, I
think, because of your saying "the article sent to St. Nicholas was
the best you would be able to do for years to come" and I saw you were
going to make it a crucial test of your ability. That is, forgive me,
nothing but nonsense. Whatever the article may be, you may write one
infinitely superior to it next week or month. Just in proportion as
you feel more deeply, or notice more keenly, and as you acquire the
faculty of expressing your feelings or observations more delicately and
powerfully which faculty must come into practice. It is not
inspiration--it never was that--without practice, with any writer from
Shakespeare down.
me. I don't say, like Papa, stop writing. God forbid. I would almost
as soon say stop breathing, for it is pretty much the same thing. But
only to remember that you have not yet conquered your art. You are a
journeyman not a master workman, so if you don't succeed, it does not
count. The future is what I look to, for you. I had to stop my work
to say all this, so good-bye dear old chum.
Yours,
MOTHER.
If anything worried Richard at all at this period, I think it was his
desire to get down to steady newspaper work, or indeed any kind of work
that would act as the first step of his career and by which he could
pay his own way in the world. It was with this idea uppermost in his
mind in the late spring of 1886, and without any particular regret for
the ending of his college career, that he left Baltimore and, returning
to his home in Philadelphia, determined to accept the first position
that presented itself. But instead of going to work at once, he once
more changed his plans and decided to sail for Santiago de Cuba with
his friend William W. Thurston, who as president of the Bethlehem Steel
Company, was deeply interested in the iron mines of that region. Here
and then it was that Richard first fell in love with Cuba--a love which
in later years became almost an obsession with him. Throughout his
life whenever it was possible, and sometimes when it seemed practically
impossible, my brother would listen to the call of his beloved tropics
and, casting aside all responsibilities, would set sail for Santiago.
After all it was quite natural that he should feel as he did about this
little Cuban coast town, for apart from its lazy life, spicy smells,
waving palms and Spanish cooking, it was here that he found the
material for his first novel and greatest monetary success, "Soldiers
of Fortune." Apart from the many purely pleasure trips he made to
Santiago, twice he returned there to work--once as a correspondent
during the Spanish-American War, and again when he went with Augustus
Thomas to assist in the latter's film version of the play which years
before Thomas had made from the novel.