The Worthington advance., 1878-12-26
Mr.. And Mrs. 3, c, Hall.

). G. Hall. made me think that descrip.
tion OF their everyday lives from one
who has the pleasure Of calling them
friends, and who but few months ago
made one of their circle, might not come
amiss to some of their admirers this side
of tho water.
Mr.. and Mrs. Hall live in low. un-
pretending-lookine little house, with an
iron gate in the high white wall that sur
rounds it, in the artistic region OF Ken
sington, near the Holland House, and are
''at home" to theil friends every Friday
in an informal pleasant way. A very
neat and low-voiced maid opens the door
tor you and shows you through narrow
hall, the walls of which are covered with
engravings, into long, low-ceilinged
room, where the dear old people received
all who come. 1t was warm dav in Ju.
" when last visited them, and the pref
ty little conservatory was full of green's
that flOurlshed to the notes of gently
dripping fountain. Only few were
gathered in the room, as the afternoon
was yet young. Mr.. Hall rose at once to
greet us, and stopped me on my way to
his wife at the OF her end of the
rsom. We all know, of course,
how old he IS in matter of mere years.
but younger hearted man have never
met, nor one on whom greatness, hardly
worked for, and nobly won, rests so sim
ply. His interest in all that is new is az
fresh as ever; he wakes the fire and life,
where literature, science, or art is con
cerned as eagerly as 80 years ago. when he
first took up the editorshlp OF the then New
Monthly, now better known as the Art
Magazine. He is fine looking old man,
with head not unlike Longfellow's, an
abundance of absolutely snow white hair,
which stands about tis face like name,
Ozark eyes, eager and piercing, perfectly
black eyebrows, bushy and straight,
and an overhanging brow, be
speaking intellect. His wife is as gentle
as he is impulsive; ss full of wo,nanli-
ness as he Is of manliness; as quite and
earnest in her welcome as he is spontane-
GUS and cordial. She, too. has white hair,
put smoothly down, and banded by q
broad black velvet ribbon. She has a
kind, true face, purified by suffering, and
marked by thought and study. She re-
ceived us sitting on low oaken settee,
over which an eastern shawl, carelessly
thrown, seemed a fitting adjunct for her
satin and rare old laces. Her sweet voice
asked our pardon for seeming rudeness
in so doing, "but," said she, smiling, II
am an old woman, and growing older,
my dear, 80 I claim my privileges, you
see." In the course of conversation with
Mr.. Hall concerning his past, he said,
"Ah, my dear young lady, l have passed
busy and an eventful life. have seen
many geniuses come and 60, rise and fall
I have known Percy, Wordsworth, Byron,
Motherwell, Tom Moore, Mrs. Browning
and her husband, and poor L. f. L., while
count now among my friends our Lau-
restc, and your mighty Longfellow, whom
think the gratest and only poet of this
time and generation. | consider Tenny-
son as belonging to past age, Arthurian
if you like. l look about me, having
known giants in my time, and what do
sect A few singing minstrel boys.
stringing rhyming lines together and
sending them forth as poetry. I tell you."
shaking his white head till each indi-
vidual hair took life of lis own, I'VE
have but one living poet, and he is not
ours, but yours, Loogfellow." Their room
is full of souvenirs sent by those who
started in the race with him, but who
have gone to their rest before them, a.
we'll as OF many tokens of a lave still
tender and grateful in living hearts, "Do
you see that little harp on the piano un-
der glass case7' he asked me; "that
belonged to poor Tom Moore. Manys
the time he has taken 1t up, aud played
and sang his own melodies to the wife
anu me. After his death bis widow sent
1t to me. 1t has been mute since then.
That table, small and common. looking,
is one Wordsworth wrote many of his
sonnets upon. Look; this is poor L. E. La
little worn pocket-b book she sent it to my
wife as farewell gift, with a sad, wild
little note, when she went awav with that
brute Of man. She never came back to
us, and the poor little purse is a pathetic
thing, is it mott Shall I tell you now l
first came to know Mrs. Rrowning9 (Miss
Barrett she was then) There came to
me one day, in the youth of my editor
ship, q manuscript, beautifully written
and as clear as print. 1t was poem of
such rare excellence and beauty that the
thought arose that I was being made the
subject of practical joke, and that it
was one Of Wordsworth's unknown to me.
With fear and trembling, l published it
under the modest signature, e. 3. 1t
was her first published effort, and the one
she refers to 10 kindly in her letters to
Horne. So came to know her, and to love
her for herself, as had admired her for
her genius. Once there came to my hands
small manuscript, in cramped hand writ
ing, not signed. read it, for mark you,
no good editor leaves the disposition of a
manuscript to his readers. With the
first quarter Oft I was utterly disgusted
and said, 10 my superior vanity, what do
I care for the petty troubles Of petty
village. or the petty squabbles Of two
petty rival newspapers? Luckily for me
[ read little further, aud began to take
in the cleverness, the delicate wit, the
subtle humor of it. It was very late at
night when l finished it, and said, Thank
God for seeing its light. Alb, see you
know what it Is. You would be ashamed
to be ignorant of it. for truly it was Littl>
Pedltnqton! ! actually quaked In my
shoes to think how nearly had passed 1t
by. Must you got Ah, 20 ycu leave III
to attend on Mr.. Welsh. Why sot'