Above all, her charity extended like a breeze: it enveloped everything she knew. The sense of destiny faded from me as the warmth of that charity fell upon my soul; the foreknowledge of death retreated, as did every other unworthy panic. She drew the objects of her friendship into something new; they breathed an air from another country, so that those whom she deigned to regard were, compared with other men, like the living compared with the dead; or, better still, they were like men awake while the rest were tortured by dreams and haunted of the unreal. Indeed, she had a word given to her which saved all the souls of her acquaintance. It is not true that influence of this sort decays or passes into vaguer and vaguer depths of memory. It does not dissipate. It is not dissolved. It does not only spread and broaden: it also increases with the passage of time. The musicians bequeath their spirit, notably those who have loved delightful themes and easy melodies. The poets are read for ever; but those who resemble her do more, for they grow out upon the centuries--they themselves and not their arts continue. There is stuff in their legend. They are a tangible inheritance for the hurrying generations of men. She was of this kind. She was certainly of this kind. She died upon this day[1] in the year 1892. In these lines I perpetuate her memory. [Footnote 1: The 22nd of December.] THE HARBOUR IN THE NORTH Upon that shore of Europe which looks out towards no further shore, I came once by accident upon a certain man.