Adventures and Letters of Richard Harding Davis - Richard Harding Davis

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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.

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      "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!"

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      "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

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