Even now I cannot realize that he is dead, and often in the city streets-on Fifth Avenue in particular-I find myself glancing ahead for a glimpse of the tall, boyish, familiar figure-experience once again a flash of the old happy expectancy. I have lived in many lands, and have known men. I never knew a finer man than Graham Phillips. His were the clearest, bluest, most honest eyes I ever saw-eyes that scorned untruth-eyes that penetrated all sham. In repose his handsome features were a trifle stern-and the magic of his smile was the more wonderful-such a sunny, youthful, engaging smile. His mere presence in a room was exhilarating. It seemed to freshen the very air with a keen sweetness almost pungent. He was tall, spare, leisurely, iron-strong; yet figure, features and bearing were delightfully boyish. Men liked him, women liked him when he liked them. He was the most honest man I ever knew, clean in mind, clean-cut in body, a little over-serious perhaps, except when among intimates; a little prone to hoist the burdens of the world on his young shoulders. His was a knightly mind; a paladin character. But he could unbend, and the memory of such hours with him-hours that can never be again-hurts more keenly than the memory of calmer and more sober moments. We agreed in many matters, he and I; in many we differed. To me it was a greater honor to differ in opinion with such a man than to find an entire synod of my own mind. Because-and of course this is the opinion of one man and worth no more than that-I have always thought that Graham Phillips was head and shoulders above us all in his profession.
