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Updated: May 15, 2025
The friendly shelter of the papyrus leaves beside the river-bank was his refuge; and as he plunged into the river the scattered volley of rifle shots tore the reeds above him. All night they remained there. Hallam up to his neck in water, and the ready prey of any searching crocodile that the blood that oozed from his wounded leg should inevitably have attracted; the Germans on the bank.
Within the next hour Captain Will Hallam quietly sent in nineteen columns of advertisements, and wrote to Ober: "Stand by your guns and I'll stand by you. If the damned fools think they can squelch you or Duncan in such a case as this, we'll teach them better. Spread my advertisements all over the paper and send bills to me. Keep it up. We'll make Cairo a better town to live in, or we'll know why.
Nine years before the appearance of the 1842 volume of Tennyson's verse the poet's bosom friend, Arthur Hallam, died at an immature age at Vienna, and his death was the subject of much brooding in noble, elegiac verse, written, as was Milton's 'Lycidas, to commemorate the loss of one very dear to the poet.
As the jack-screws slowly brought them into position, Will Hallam and Duncan, one at either end of the logs directed men in the work of placing log supports under them. At half past eleven Temple announced that the great tree trunks were in place.
Hallam regarded his companion steadily. "Well, I don't know, but we needn't argue. You don't want him to get those dollars out of Carnaby?" "And you don't want him to find the silver." Hallam laughed. "That's quite right," said he. "The same thing would suit both of us." "I scarcely think so," said Deringham. "In my case, I really do not mind whether he gets the dollars from Carnaby or not."
Gladstone had the pleasure in this examination of awarding the Newcastle medal to Henry Fitzmaurice Hallam, the youngest brother of his own beloved friend and son of the historian Hallam. One of the scholars he examined writes: "I have a vivid and delightful impression of Mr.
Beneath his breath the bewildered man said: "The deuce!" and above it, in a stupefied tone: "Mrs. Hallam!" She nodded in a not unfriendly fashion, smiling brightly. "Myself, Mr. Kirkwood! Really, our predestined paths are badly tangled, just now; aren't they? Were you surprised to find me in here, with you? Come now, confess you were!"
Hallam could not read The French Revolution because of its "abominable" style, and Wordsworth, whose own prose was perfectly limpid, is reported to have said, "No Scotchman can write English. C is a pest to the language."
That is one way of greatness; a sort of big, blunt force that overwhelms and uplifts, like a great sea-roller, yielding at a hundred small points, yet crowding onwards in soft volume and ponderous weight. Two interesting examples of this impressive and indescribable greatness seem to have been Arthur Hallam and the late Mr. W. E. Henley.
Arthur Hallam, whom In Memoriam has made immortal, was credited by the partial judgment of his friends with talents which, they would fain think, were actually shown both in verse and prose. A wiser criticism will content itself with saying that in one sense he produced In Memoriam itself, and that this is enough connection with literature for any man.
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