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