Don Lipsett, RIP.

DON LIPSETT came to NATIONAL REVIEW when we were only a few months old, asking for work not because he cared especially to be associated with a magazine, but because he cared to associate with the conservative movement. He was very young (26), blond, quiet in manner, quick to smile but equally quick to return to his rather melancholy mien, which went well with the pipe he habitually drew on.

We made him assistant to the circulation manager, and dear Don was quite impossible. It wasn't any lack of intelligence or devotion to the job at hand, but a hopeless, organic, anarchic disorganization that might cause him to file a subscriber's request for a change of address in his left shoe.

In due course he left us to work for The Freeman, the publication of the Foundation for Economic Education, to help it with its circulation problems. He traveled from one conservative organization to another, doing service for Hillsdale College, for ISI (then still called the Intercollegiate Society of Individualists), for the Heritage Foundation. And one day in 1964, in his obligatorily quiet manner, he suggested to a few of us a need for an organiza- tion to which stranded conservative students and scholars and journalists could look for occasional publications and for general meetings, three or four times a year. The decision was made to call it the Philadelphia Society.

It is for American conservatives what the Mt. Pelerin Society is for academic free-marketeers worldwide. Don Lipsett in his absolutely unobtrusive way was the mind behind every one of the two-day meetings, whose agenda has been regularly reported in the pages of NATIONAL REVIEW, in recent years by manag- ing editor Linda Bridges. The Society has served as a forum for tight, con- tentious argument, for lyrical flights of ideological fancy, and for bouts of fine camaraderie among freethinking conservatives, men and women of all ages.

Don Lipsett's powers of persuasion, quietly, sweetly exercised with a smile and a little self-effacement, could wring manna from desert soil. It was, I think, his ability to produce a corporate jet at just the right moment to serve just that emergency which, untended to, would keep a desperately desired guest speaker from appearing to give a speech or lead a discussion that brought him the informal designation of The Commodore. He was so referred to, and finally agreed to go along with the act to the point of emblazoning an admiral's insignia on his stationery. The Commodore never asked too much, which is why when he did ask for something, it was granted as the only alternative to lifelong self-hatred. The Commodore of course did not tell his friends, not even Ed Feulner, that leukemia had been detected, and no one had any advance notice when the news came, last week, that he was gone, probably the most attractive and selfless American to figure so prominently in the revival of the American conservative spirit.

The editors of NATIONAL REVIEW extend their condolences to his wife, Norma.

I decline, along with everyone in the room, to assume that an event designed to celebrate the achievements of Don Lipsett in any way suggests that his fol- lowers intend to weigh less on him, depend less on him, enjoy less the fruits of his enterprise or of his company. It's possible that I have known and worked with him longer than anyone in this company who is not biologically related to him. We were friends in the days of the old Freeman, he was with us early in the days of NATIONAL REVIEW. We have met at street corners and Gold- water rallies, at directors' meetings of the Foundation for Economic Educa- tion, at founders' meetings of the Philadelphia Society and the Heritage Foundation. I have no doubt that one day at the never-ending file of sup- plicants approaching the heavenly gates, the Commodore will, in his self-effacing way, be doing the work of the Lord, lightly, deftly, surefootedly singling out that legion of men and women whom he served for so many years as faithful cicerone, warning of the perils of statist idolatry, reminding us to bring this one qualification to the attention of the heavenly gatekeeper, confident that it will atone for a large, if not sufficiently large, body of the heavy sins we bear. And then will the roar of the crowd pass up in mounting volume, Where is the Commodore? He is wanted by St. Peter. None of us will be surprised. But pending that reward, he must make do with the only thing we can proffer him here on earth, our gratitude, and our devo- tion. --From testimonial to Don Lipsett by WFB at Philadelphia Society meet- ing, April 1994.