DAVID　GRAHAM　PHILLIPS
  A　TRIBUTE
  Even　now　I　cannot　realize　that　he　is　dead；　and　often　in　the　city
  streetson　Fifth　Avenue　in　particularI　find　myself　glancing
  ahead　for　a　glimpse　of　the　tall；　boyish；　familiar
  figureexperience　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　saweyes
  that　scorned　untrutheyes　that　penetrated　all　sham。
  In　repose　his　handsome　features　were　a　trifle　sternand　the
  magic　of　his　smile　was　the　more　wonderfulsuch　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　himhours　that　can
  never　be　againhurts　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。
  Becauseand　of　course　this　is　the　opinion　of　one　man　and　worth
  no　more　than　thatI　have　always　thought　that　Graham　Phillips
  was　head　and　shoulders　above　us　all　in　his　profession。
  He　was　to　have　been　really　great。　　He　isby　his　last　book；
  〃Susan　Lenox。〃
  Not　that；　when　he　sometimes　discussed　the　writing　of　it　with　me；
  I　was　in　sympathy　with　it。　　I　was　not。　　We　always　were　truthful　to
  each　other。
  But　when　a　giant　molds　a　lump　of　clay　into　tremendous　masses；
  lesser　men　become　confused　by　the　huge　contours；　the　vast
  distances；　the　terrific　spaces；　the　majestic　scope　of　the
  ensemble。　　So　I。　　But　he　went　on　about　his　business。
  I　do　not　know　what　the　public　may　think　of　〃Susan　Lenox。〃　I
  scarcely　know　what　I　think。
  It　is　a　terrible　bookterrible　and　true　and　beautiful。
  Under　the　depths　there　are　unspeakable　things　that　writhe。　　His
  plumb…line　touches　them　and　they　squirm。　　He　bends　his　head　from
  the　clouds　to　do　it。　　Is　it　worth　doing？　　I　don't　know。
  But　this　I　do　knowthat　within　the　range　of　all　fiction　of　all
  lands　and　of　all　times　no　character　has　so　overwhelmed　me　as　the
  character　of　Susan　Lenox。
  She　is　as　real　as　life　and　as　unreal。　　She　is　Life。　　Hers　was　the
  concentrated　nobility　of　Heaven　and　Hell。　　And　the　divinity　of
  the　one　and　the　tragedy　of　the　other。　　For　she　had　known
  boththis　girlthe　most　pathetic；　the　most　human；　the　most
  honest　character　ever　drawn　by　an　American　writer。
  In　the　presence　of　his　last　work；　so　overwhelming；　so
  stupendous；　we　lesser　men　are　left　at　a　loss。　　Its　magnitude
  demands　the　perspective　that　time　only　can　lend　it。　　Its　dignity
  and　austerity　and　its　pitiless　truth　impose　upon　us　that　honest
  and　intelligent　silence　which　even　the　quickest　minds　concede　is
  necessary　before　an　honest　verdict。
  Truth　was　his　goddess；　he　wrought　honestly　and　only　for　her。
  He　is　dead；　but　he　is　to　have　his　day　in　court。　　And　whatever　the
  verdict；　if　it　be　a　true　one；　were　he　living　he　would　rest　content。
  ROBERT　W。　　CHAMBERS。