But there was one who found, to use his own words, ’a strange sideway out of Ladysmith,’ whose memory many English-speaking people will preserve.  I do not write of Steevens as a journalist, nor as the master of a popular and pleasing style, but as a man.  I knew him, though I had met him rarely.  A dinner up the Nile, a chance meeting at an Indian junction, five days on a Mediterranean steamer, two in a Continental express, and a long Sunday at his house near Merton—­it was a scanty acquaintance, but sufficient to be quite certain that in all the varied circumstances and conditions to which men are subjected Steevens rang true.  Modest yet proud, wise as well as witty, cynical but above all things sincere, he combined the characters of a charming companion and a good comrade.

His conversation and his private letters sparkled like his books and articles.  Original expressions, just similitudes, striking phrases, quaint or droll ideas welled in his mind without the slightest effort.  He was always at his best.  I have never met a man who talked so well, so easily.  His wit was the genuine article—­absolutely natural and spontaneous.

I once heard him describe an incident in the Nile campaign, and the description amused me so much that I was impatient to hear it again, and when a suitable occasion offered I asked him to tell his tale to the others.  But he told it quite differently, and left me wondering which version was the better.  He could not repeat himself if he tried, whereas most of the renowned talkers I have met will go over the old impression with the certainty of a phonograph.

But enough of his words.  He was not a soldier, but he walked into the Atbara zareba with the leading company of the Seaforth Highlanders.  He wrote a vivid account of the attack, but there was nothing in it about himself.

When the investment of Ladysmith shut the door on soldiers, townspeople, and War Correspondents alike, Steevens set to work to do his share of keeping up the good spirits of the garrison and of relieving the monotony of the long days.  Through the first three months of the siege no local event was awaited with more interest than the publication of a ‘Ladysmith Lyre,’ and the weary defenders had many a good laugh at its witticisms.

Sun, stink, and sickness harassed the beleaguered.  The bombardment was perpetual, the relief always delayed; hope again and again deferred.  But nothing daunted Steevens, depressed his courage, or curbed his wit.  What such a man is worth in gloomy days those may appreciate who have seen the effect of public misfortunes on a modern community.

At last he was himself stricken down by enteric fever.  When it seemed that the worst was over there came a fatal relapse, and the brightest Intellect yet sacrificed by this war perished; nor among all the stubborn garrison of Ladysmith was there a stouter heart or a more enduring spirit.

Dismal scenes were to be found at the hospital camp by Intombi Spruit.  Here, in a town of white tents, under the shadow of Bulwana, were collected upwards of two thousand sick and wounded—­a fifth of the entire garrison.  They were spared the shells, but exposed to all the privations of the siege.