His books
were sold in great numbers, but it might be said in terms of
the trade that his personality had a larger circulation than
his literature. He probably knew more waiters, generals,
actors, and princes than any man who ever lived, and the
people he knew best are not the people who read books. They
write them or are a part of them. Besides, if you knew
Richard Davis you knew his books. He translated himself
literally, and no expurgation was needed to make the
translation suitable for the most innocent eyes. He was the
identical chivalrous young American or Englishman who strides
through his pages in battalions to romantic death or romantic
marriage. Every one speaks of the extraordinary youthfulness
of his mind, which was still fresh at an age when most men
find avarice or golf a substitute for former pastimes. He not
only refused to grow old himself, he refused to write about
old age. There are a few elderly people in his books, but
they are vague and shadowy. They serve to emphasize the
brightness of youth, and are quickly blown away when the time
for action arrives. But if he numbered his friends and
acquaintances by the thousands there are other thousands in
this country who have read his books, and they know, even
better than those who were acquainted with him personally, how
good a friend they have lost.
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