had long ago shed a golden light upon her peculiar character. She
had made herself believe, quite erroneously, that she was largely
indebted to me for her success in the literary world. The letters I
had from her glowed with this noble passion: the delusion about her
indebtedness to me, in spite of all I could say, never left her. She
continued to foster and cherish this delusion. Gratitude indeed was
with her not a sentiment merely, as with most of us, but a veritable
passion. And when we consider how rare a human trait true gratitude
is--the one particular characteristic in which the lower animals
put us to shame--it can easily be imagined how I was touched to find
that this beautiful and grand Canadian girl remained down to the
very last moment of her life the impersonation of that most precious
of all virtues. I have seen much of my fellow men and women, and
I never knew but two other people who displayed gratitude as a
passion--indulged in it, I might say, as a luxury--and they were
both poets. I can give no higher praise to the "irritable genus."
On this account Pauline Johnson will always figure in my memory as
one of the noblest minded of the human race.

Circumstances made my personal knowledge of her all too slight. Our
spiritual intimacy, however, was very strong, and I hope I shall be
pardoned for saying a few words as to how our friendship began. It
was at the time of Vancouver's infancy, when the population of the
beautiful town of her final adoption was less than a twelfth of what
it now is, and less than a fiftieth part of what it is soon going
to be.

In 1906 I met her during one of her tours. How well I remember it!
She was visiting London in company with Mr. McRaye--making a tour of
England--reciting Canadian poetry. And on this occasion Mr. McRaye