d that that was the best way to write a
descriptive article, always had believed it, and believed it so long as
he wrote. And whatever difference of opinion may have existed among
the critics and the public as to Richard's fiction, I think it is safe
to say that as a reporter his work of nearly thirty years stood at
least as high as that of any of his contemporaries or perhaps as that
of the reporters of all time. As an editor, when he gave out an
assignment to a reporter to write an article on some well-worn subject
and the reporter protested, Richard's answer was the same: "You must
always remember that that story hasn't been written until YOU write
it." And when he suggested to an editor that he would like to write an
article on Broadway, or the Panama Canal, or the ruins of Rome and the
editor disapproved, Richard's argument was: "It hasn't been done until
_I_ do it." And it was not because he believed for a moment that he
could do it better or as well as it had been done. It was simply
because he knew the old story was always a good story, that is, if it
was seen with new eyes and from a new standpoint. At twenty-eight he
had written a book about England and her people, and the book had met
with much success both in America and England. At twenty-nine, equally
unafraid, he had "covered" the ancient cities that border the
Mediterranean, and now Paris lay before him! This thought--indeed few
thoughts--troubled Richard very much in those days of his early
successes. He had youth, friends, a marvellous spirit of adventure,
and besides there are many worse fates than being consigned to spending
a few months in Paris, having a thoroughly joyous time, taking a few
mental notes, and a little later on transferring them to paper in the
quiet of a peaceful summer home at Marion.

Chief among his friends in Paris at this time was Charles Dana Gibson,
who was living in a charming old house in the Latin Quarter, and where
the artist did some of his best work and made himself extremely popular
with both the Parisians and the American colony. In addition to Gibson
there were Kenneth Frazier, the portrait-painter, and Tina, Newton, and
James Eustis, the daughter and sons of James B. Eustis, who at that
time was our ambassador to France, a most genial and kindly host, who
made much of Richard and his young friends.

PARIS, May 5, 1893.

DEAR MOTHER:

It is a narrow street with apartment houses of gray stone and iro