And a correspondent writes:—­

     “To-day I called on Lord Kitchener, in compliance with his request,
     having yesterday received through his aide-de-camp, Major Watson,
     the following letter:—­

          “’I am anxious to have an opportunity of expressing to you
          personally my great regret at the loss we have all sustained
          in the death of Mr Steevens.’

     “Lord Kitchener said to me:—­

“’I was anxious to tell you how very sorry I was to hear of the death of Mr Steevens.  He was with me in the Sudan, and, of course, I saw a great deal of him and knew him well.  He was such a clever and able man.  He did his work as correspondent so brilliantly, and he never gave the slightest trouble—­I wish all correspondents were like him.  I suppose they will try to follow in his footsteps.  I am sure I hope they will.

     “’He was a model correspondent, the best I have ever known, and I
     should like you to say how greatly grieved I am at his death.’”

Some “In Memoriam” verses, very beautifully written, for the ’Morning Post,’ may however claim a passing attention:—­

    “The pages of the Book quickly he turned. 
    He saw the languid Isis in a dream
    Flow through the flowery meadows, where the ghosts
    Of them whose glorious names are Greece and Rome
    Walked with him.  Then the dream must have an end,
    For London called, and he must go to her,
    To learn her secrets—­why men love her so,
    Loathing her also.  Yet again he learned
    How God, who cursed us with the need of toil,
    Relenting, made the very curse a boon. 
    There came a call to wander through the world
    And watch the ways of men.  He saw them die
    In fiercest fight, the thought of victory
    Making them drunk like wine; he saw them die
    Wounded and sick, and struggling still to live,
    To fight again for England, and again
    Greet those who loved them.  Well indeed he knew
    How good it is to live, how good to love,
    How good to watch the wondrous ways of men—­
    How good to die, if ever there be need. 
    And everywhere our England in his sight
    Poured out her blood and gold, to share with all
    Her heritage of freedom won of old. 
    Thus quickly did he turn the pages o’er,
    And learn the goodness of the gift of life;
    And when the Book was ended, glad at heart—­
    The lesson learned, and every labour done—­
    Find at the end life’s ultimate gift of rest.”

There I leave him.  Great-hearted, strong-souled, brave without a hesitation, tender as a child, intolerant of wrong because he was incapable of it, tolerant of every human weakness, slashing controversialist in speech, statesman-like in foresight, finely versed in the wisdom of many literatures, a man of genius scarce aware of his innumerable gifts, but playing them all with splendid skill, with full enjoyment of the crowded hours of life,—­here was George Steevens.  In the face of what might have been—­think of it—­a boy scarce thirty!  And yet he did much, if his days were so few.  “Being made perfect in a little while, he fulfilled long years.”