HALL CAINE’S CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH
Thomas Henry Hall Caine was born in Runcorn, Lancashire, on May 14,
1853. Runcorn is by no means a romantic town, and, fortunately for the
future novelist, he only spent ten days of his life within its precincts.
His father was a Manxman, and his mother a native of Cumberland. They
were both of the people—hard-working, poor and thrifty; but they must
have possessed some remarkable qualities of mind and heart if we are
to give any credence to the theory of heredity, for not only has Hall
Caine made his mark upon his generation, but his sister, Miss Lily Hall
Caine, has won a by no means unimportant place in the theatrical world,
and his brother, Mr Ralph Hall Caine, is, within limits, a charming
writer of talent and ability. Caine is a Celtic name; Hall, his mother’s
maiden name, is Norse, and is very commonly met with still in Iceland.
The novelist himself has inherited the physical characteristics of his
maternal ancestors, for, like the Norsemen, his beard and hair are red,
and although he is the reverse of a strong man, his clearly-defined and
well-developed features indicate to some extent the physical robustness
of the Norsemen. His forefathers were farmers and fishermen, an old hardy
family of great strength and physical endurance.
Though born in Runcorn, and resident whilst a very young child in
Liverpool, Hall Caine’s earliest recollections are of the Isle of Man,
of his grandmother’s cottage “Ballavolley,” Ballaugh, in the north of
Manxland. It speaks much for his early development that even as a little
child he loved the island which, in future years, was to be dearer to him
than any spot on earth. “There is no place in America, Italy, Russia,
Iceland, Morocco, or any other country I have visited, that is quite so
beautiful as my own little island in its own little way,” he said to me
only a month or two ago. And what he thinks to-day he has always thought.
There is a subtle, elusive charm about the Isle of Man which is obvious
to the least observant of men, but there are few who are able to define
its particular character, or who are able to define from what source it
is derived. Once become a lover of that narrow stretch of land, and you
are eternally lost; its beauty, its freshness and its fragrance will
haunt you for ever, and each year when June comes round you will be
impelled, by an irresistible desire, to tread once more the heights of
Snaefell and Barrule, and wander again through the glens of Sulby and the
Dhoon. It were worse than useless for me to attempt to paint any of the
beautiful scenes which Manxland possesses, but the explanation of its
distinctive charm lies in this, that it is an island. For not only is it
an island, but a nation—a nation with manners and customs peculiar to
itself—a nation that is, for the most part, occupied with itself and its
own affairs. Its very aloofness attracts. It is in the world, but not of
it; it lies apart surrounded by the ever-changing seas, and covered by
a firmament which seems to be a part of its very self. The dim outline
of the hills of other lands—England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales—only
emphasises this sense of remoteness. It is only the vessels out at sea
creeping steadily along the horizon, that act as a reminder of the
existence of other lands, and not the far-off lands themselves. These
vessels are the only disturbing influence of the island’s peace: they
breathe forth the breath of the city, and remind one of that which one
has been tempted almost to forget—that the world is not all beautiful,
and that sooner or later the city will again claim us as its own.
But this island-charm was not the only influence that was at work upon
the young child’s imagination. His grandmother, superstitious like
all good Manx people, would tell him tales in the dusk of evening,
that banished all sleep from his eyes, and set his fancy weaving
stories of elves, fairies, gnomes and witches. The old woman had the
folk-lore of her native country at her finger-ends, and so attentive a
listener curled up at the fire of peat made a good story-teller of her.
The first book he remembers reading was a huge volume on the German
Reformation, about Luther and Melancthon, and other men who soon became
his well-loved heroes. These days Mr Caine remembers well and the
memory is sweet and pleasant. But the time came when it was necessary
for him to go to school, and he returned to his parents who had settled
in Liverpool. At the age of ten he entered as a “new boy” the public
school in Hope Street, Liverpool. Among his fellow-pupils was a William
Pierce who was afterwards to become one of the most prominent figures
in the Congregational Ministry. I am indebted to this gentleman for the
following schoolboy reminiscences of his companion.
“Many things served to make the entry of Hall Caine among us noteworthy.
In the first place, he was easily distinguished among a crowd of
schoolboys by his then bright hair—gold, turning to red—his clear, almost
girlish complexion, and his large, luminous brown eyes. I think the
almost instantaneous conviction in the minds of the rest of the class
that morning was that our new friend would be all the better for a little
wholesome persecution when their duties were over, if only to take some
of the painful freshness out of him and tone him down to our own colour.
This feeling on our part was heightened when he was called upon to read
a passage aloud, which he did, as I clearly recall, in a very musical
voice, and with much greater modulation than we had dared to employ—lest
we should be thought to be giving ourselves airs! When our master was
injudicious enough to praise Hall Caine warmly at the expense of the
rest of us, the duty of taking him in hand became one of high moral
obligation. And though I have no recollection of what happened, I have
no doubt that, being so different from other boys in many respects, he
did suffer some little persecution, without being, I hope, any the worse
for the discipline.
“I think that probably, to the end of his school experience, Caine
was somewhat scoffed at by the rougher boys; partly, also, because
he was not addicted to settling his differences with other boys by
giving or accepting challenges to fight. But he was not in the least
a milksop. Among the trivial remembrances of those days, the only
outstanding recollection I have of Caine is quite characteristic of
him. At one of the terminal examinations we were set to write a short
English composition. The report of the examiner stated that one paper
was unusual, coming from a class of boys of our years. This youthful
production was graced by apt poetical quotations, illustrations of the
theme set us—a unique feature in the examiner’s experience of boys of our
standard. I remember one of our class-mates remarking that it required
some cheek to quote poetry in old ⸺’s composition; but my own estimate
of Caine increased by this and similar circumstances, and when I left
for one of the larger grammar schools in the city, we were already great
friends.”
It will be seen from the above that early in life Hall Caine was schooled
to bear the unfriendly criticism and persecution of those who were unable
to understand him. The schoolmaster mentioned by the Reverend William
Pierce was Mr George Gill, the head of the well-known firm of publishers
of schoolbooks. From the very first Mr Gill recognised that his young,
sensitive pupil had remarkable powers, and that if all went well he
would one day make a name for himself. In proof of this I should like to
relate a story in connection with the first night of _The Christian_ in
London. Mr George Gill, now an old man, was in the stalls, his heart full
of pride at the distinguished position his quondam pupil had gained.
The theatre was packed with a fashionable and intellectual audience. A
play was about to be produced which had taken America by storm, and it
was confidently expected that in England also the drama would achieve a
tremendous success. Carried away by generous pride and enthusiasm, Mr
Gill turned to those seated near him, exclaiming: “I always knew it! I
_always_ knew it! I said from the very first that the lad had genius,
and to-night I am witnessing the proof of it.” The conduct of the old
gentleman reflected the greatest credit on his heart and head alike, and
it is a noteworthy instance of Hall Caine’s power of making and keeping
friends.
But let me return to Mr Pierce’s reminiscences. “During the few years
that followed,” he says, “my friendship with Caine met with little
advance. I saw him occasionally only, and heard of his doings but at rare
intervals. His people were attached to the large and important Baptist
Church in Myrtle Street, presided over by Hugh Stowell Brown, himself a
Manxman. It was natural that young Caine should find here an opening for
his budding faculties, though he never became one of the inner circle of
the workers of the church. I used to hear of his occasional participation
in the proceedings of a literary and debating society established
at Myrtle Street. Without aiming at it, he easily drew attention to
himself—in voice, in manner and in mental cast he was an exceptional
youth. Meanwhile he was ‘something in the city.’”
Mr George Rose, another of his most intimate friends at this time,
writes me that at the age of fifteen young Caine was apprenticed to an
architect. “It was in a quiet spot,” continues Mr Rose, “somewhat remote
from the part of the town where the activities of commerce were carried
on. The daily routine of duties was not burdensome, and many of his hours
were devoted to the self-imposed tasks of a literary nature, in which he
delighted. Probably he dreamed, through many a quiet hour, of success to
be gained in after years; if it were possible to recall some of those
dreams and, by putting them together, to form the chart of a projected
journey through life, it would be found to differ widely in many ways
from the course he was ordained to follow. Perhaps the only points of
coincidence which could be noticed would be the constant turning towards
the Isle of Man that was never absent from any scheme of life upon which
his fancy dwelt in youthful days.
“For those who hope to ‘make their way,’ London necessarily fills a large
space in the map of life, and thither Hall Caine’s thoughts often turned.
Then there were quiet joys in Lakeland to tempt the wanderer; but the
little Man Island was the home to which return was to be made at last,
and which was to have its scenes brightened by any glory that could be
won in the outer world.
“Hall Caine was endowed by Nature with some graceful qualities which
would have made him popular in whatever walk of life he chose to follow.
Before it was known outside the circle of his friends that he possessed
such remarkable qualities of mind he had already shown his power to hold
the attention of audiences, and was well known and greatly esteemed in
the wide district occupied by the southern portion of Liverpool. It was
customary at that time to arrange ‘Readings’ for the amusement of the
people. These entertainments were given by societies connected with
places of worship, and were intended to have an educating and refining
effect on the people who attended them. Hall Caine when very young was
in great request at gatherings of that kind, and his presence on any
platform was enthusiastically welcomed. He was of pleasing appearance,
confident in his manner, and his countenance gave the impression
that his disposition was genial. People were always happy to make
his acquaintance, and when he began to speak, whether expressing his
own thoughts or reciting some piece of poetry, the clear tone of his
voice, the perfect enunciation of his words, his intense earnestness
and effective dramatic style enabled him to hold the attention of an
audience from his first word so long as he chose to address them. His
taste lay in the selection of serious pieces; sometimes they were even
a little beyond the comprehension of his hearers. He had given much
attention to the study of the works of the Lake school of poets, and
to those of the best writers of the eighteenth century. With these as
models, he had formed for himself an ideal of perfection in language
that, even in the excitement of speaking in public, he never lost sight
of; and this, combined with his natural fluency of speech, raised his
efforts to the level of oratory. The extent and variety of his reading
tended to give a peculiar quaintness to some of his forms of expression.
He sometimes introduced words and phrases borrowed from old authors,
forgetting that they were no longer in common use. At other times the
sense in which he used a word was different from that in which his
hearers understood it. In connection with his work in the society of
Myrtle Street Chapel he undertook to read a poem upon which he was then
engaged; it was a romantic composition in blank verse. The subject was
the return of a hero to his desolated native land, in defence of which
he had been long absent on a distant journey. Although the poem was of
considerable length it contained few characters and incidents, but its
lines embodied Hall Caine’s ideal of a golden age. When he first turned
his thoughts to literature as a profession his inclination would have
led him to express his ideas in the form of poetry; in this particular
his mind gradually changed. Next to poetry his desire was to become
a journalist. During his holiday visits to the Isle of Man he found
opportunities of contributing to the island newspapers, and soon his
articles were so highly valued that his editor accepted everything that
came from his pen. One little peculiarity in those articles was the
source of much amusement to his friends in Liverpool. It was the frequent
repetition of a pet phrase, ‘these three small islands,’ by which he
meant Great Britain, Ireland and the Isle of Man. If he had then been
called upon to name them in the order of their importance he would
undoubtedly have given the first place to Manxland.”
In connection with these articles mentioned by Mr Rose, I may say that
they were written when their author was sixteen years of age. It has
been my privilege to read many of them. They are noticeable for close
reasoning and exceptionally wide reading for one so young. They were
written in favour of the maintenance of Manx political institutions
which, at that time, were threatened with annihilation. They are vehement
but reasonable, and in no place does their author overstep the bounds of
common-sense.
Again I quote Mr Rose. “One of Hall Caine’s favourite plans was an
intention to write a drama. He had read that in some part of Germany
there was a law by virtue of which an inquiry was made immediately after
a man’s death into the extent of his possessions; and when it was found
that he had evaded payment of any portion of the taxes to which a man of
his means was liable, the whole of his property was forfeited to the
State. The plot of Hall Caine’s intended drama was to be founded upon a
tragic result of this custom. The principal idea of the story was that
a wealthy merchant having entrusted to his confidential agent the duty
of making the statements required by the law, the agent systematically
falsified them, in order that on the death of the principal the agent
might become an informer and bring about the forfeiture of the estate.
The motive was that the daughter of the merchant, being rendered
penniless, might be driven to accept the informer’s proposal of marriage.
“Such was the crude outline of the plot; but it was altered almost every
day. He often talked about this project, but never spoke about the words
of the play. It was the machinery of the play that he was concerned
about, the number of the scenes and their order of succession, with other
points of stage management. He wrote so easily that he felt no anxiety
about his ability to accomplish the literary part of the design; but he
believed that in a dramatic composition, however original and lofty the
thoughts it contained, however perfect the expression of them, all would
be wasted unless they were woven around a framework of method exactly
adapted to meet the conditions of stage representation.
“Although the idea of writing such a play was never carried into effect,
it served to show what direction Hall Caine’s thoughts were taking. Many
of his contributions to Liverpool newspapers took the form of dramatic
criticism. His mind was greatly influenced by the successes achieved
by Henry Irving. It will be remembered that for some considerable time
before Mr Irving appeared in the character of Hamlet, his intention
to do so was known, and the degree in which his representation of the
part would differ from that of other actors was the subject of lively
discussion. Hall Caine interested himself deeply in the matter, and
contributed many brilliant articles on the subject to various papers. He
gave a great deal of attention to the study of Shakespeare’s writings,
and his conversation on the subject was very interesting because of the
light he was able to throw on the meaning of passages the importance
of which would be overlooked by an ordinary reader. I heard him speak
at a meeting of a literary society over which he presided for some
time and which had enrolled many able men amongst its members. The
subject was a reading of scenes from Shakespeare’s _Julius Cæsar_.
Some remarks had been made about the conversation of the conspirators
which takes place as they stand in the garden of Brutus’s house. In
talking together they allude to the dawn which they saw or pretended
to see. Hall Caine insisted that the words were full of hidden meaning
if properly emphasised by appropriate gesture. He quoted the speech of
Casca in Act II., Scene I. ‘Here as I point my sword, the sun arises; …
some two months hence, up higher towards the north, he first presents
his fire,’ and said it was necessary for the actor to bring out the true
significance of the lines by pointing with his sword, first to the house
of Cæsar, and then to that of Brutus, indicating the transfer of power to
the latter which the conspirator desired to effect.”
This study of Shakespeare—a study close, intimate and unremitting—cannot
be insisted on too strongly. Shakespeare and the Bible have from his
earliest years been his chief mental food: his thoughts are coloured by
the imagery of the Prophets, and his language has gained in terseness,
vigour and force from the greatest poet who has ever lived.
I now resume Mr Pierce’s reminiscences. “He was becoming” (in about the
year 1870, when Hall Caine was seventeen years of age) “more and more
absorbed in literary studies, and quite early began to make acquaintance
with the dramatists—not content, as most of us were, with reading the
plays of Shakespeare only among the Elizabethans, but reading extensively
and thoughtfully the writings of all the most notable playwrights of
that great age. I was early struck by his references to the _Jew
of Malta_. He would quote Ben Jonson’s _Volpone_, or from a play by
Massinger, or Beaumont and Fletcher, or Webster, in a way which showed
considerable familiarity with the literature of the time. These facts
have more significance for me now than then, as I see in them the growth
of his mind, and the evidence of an original impulse towards literary
studies. It is difficult to explain how this solitary youth, amidst
surroundings by no means suggestive of such studies, should have chosen
this way of spending his hours of leisure; and by what instinct, in those
early days when university extension lectures were yet unknown, before
English literature as an educational subject was popularised, and before
the publication of our modern guides and manuals for the help of the
blundering tyro, Caine seized at once the salient points of the great
subject, divining the place and importance of names not known to the
merely well-informed multitude, least of all to youths who had not long
left school.
“It was during this period that I began to renew my intimacy with Caine.
It was probably due to some kindness on his part. He has a genius for
friendship, and is capable of taking immeasurable pains in the service
of those to whom he is attached; and he is, or perhaps I should say he
was, one of the best and most faithful letter-writers I have ever known.
I had left business and was studying Art and Literature in an easy,
unmethodical, Bohemian fashion, drawing from the antique during the day,
and exploring the poets and essayists in the evening, with desultory
violin studies and excursions into Geology and _Genesis_ by way of
diversion and variety. Caine was interested in all these things; but he
never aspired to sing or play, and made fun of his own drawings, though
I believe he was really a skilful architectural draughtsman. He did one
thing, one thing only, and he did it better than anyone else.
“Perhaps my knowledge of his mind during these early years is due to the
fact that I left Liverpool about the close of 1871 for Carnarvon to
take up a press appointment. Caine had no difficulty in communicating
his thoughts in writing. I must have written him some account of my
whereabouts, or have sent him copies of the newspaper on which I was
engaged, or probably have done both things. And so a correspondence,
to me most notable, began. Caine was principally responsible for its
maintenance; he was the more regular and conscientious writer. His
letters were often extraordinary with regard to their length, and more
often extraordinary with regard to their contents. But in the most rapid
and familiar of them there is a sense of style. He is full of qualifying
clauses, inversions, interpolated interrogations, and exclamations,
but the grammatical and logical close of each sentence is successfully
reached. Still, though often somewhat formidable in length, and graced by
literary ingenuities at times, they are letters, nevertheless, and not
essays. There is no consciousness that a word in any one of them is ever
to be seen by a third person. That they are less casual and simple in
style than most letters addressed to familiar friends must be set down
to the character of the writer. I remember a somewhat matter-of-fact
schoolfellow, himself innocent enough of any refinement of speech or
culture of mind, expressing his detestation of Caine because when you met
him on the most ordinary occasions and conversed on the most trifling
subjects, ‘he always spoke like a book.’ However, it was natural to
Caine to dress his casual thoughts in refined and graceful language.
His thoughts are grave and gay in his letters, and sometimes, indeed,
he writes for the sake of writing; he likes playing with words and
sentences. He is naturally communicative—tells his thoughts, and gossips
about himself pleasantly. He has been gracing a friend’s essay on ‘War’
with a couple of stanzas. Not that he is a peace-at-any-price man; the
stanzas, though not at all sanguinary, are highly patriotic. He has even
delivered a Temperance lecture, and not without much appreciation on the
part of the ancients who heard him; but he positively declines to pursue
Fame on the Temperance platform. Then after a little pleasantry he hopes
I am laughing, as he himself does at his own jokes; in the first place,
for reasons of prudence—since none other might laugh save himself, and in
the second place, because it is unchristianlike to ask another to do what
you refuse to do yourself. One item startles us. He has just finished a
play in blank verse, and inquires if I should like to peruse it.
“In another letter he hopes the correspondence will continue, since he
knows it would tend ‘towards the establishment in our minds of fixed
principles, upon matters the most important to man’s welfare here, as
well as in that existence of his which (we believe) is to come.’ It
would also strengthen our friendship, though upon the subject generally
he has some sad things to say—as that at the time he is writing there
lived not the man with whom he had ‘true unity of feeling.’ As the letter
proceeds we see that he is entering the melancholy period of life when
sad and depressed spirits are a very frequent distemper with young men
who are thoughtful and live much alone. In such a mood Caine had the day
before written verses some of which he quotes, and a few lines of which I
further quote.
“‘What wonder, if in height of grief
The fading flower, the falling leaf
Make truer solace to the mind,
Than Nature’s richest, gladdest bloom
In harvest waving to the wind.
“‘What wonder if it grant relief
To hearts o’erta’en, o’erdone by grief,
To see the sun and sky unblest
Put on a dark and murky vest!
To see the moon in shadows pale
Fade out before the coming gale!’
“It is a not uncommon mood with young men, and its not unnatural cure is
for the young man to fall deeply in love. But there seemed no likelihood
of any such happiness befalling young Caine, so far as any of his friends
knew. He seemed to avoid the possibility of such a contingency. His
friendships, so far as I knew, were exclusively with young men, though
there was nothing of the misogynist in him. In the letter from which
the above quotations are taken, he again refers to grave spiritual
questions—what is life? he asks, and naturally gives vague answers and
speculations. He quotes, in connection with the hypothesis that evil is a
quality of our more material part, the lines:—
“‘I am the wave of life
Stained with my margin’s dust.’
He excuses himself for not sending the play in blank verse as he has only
one draft copy, and its condition is such that he is convinced I could
not read it. In some letters now lost he had referred to a Christmas poem
he is to write, but although now it is the first day of December, it
is not begun. ‘It is to be framed from an old plot of one of the Greek
Tragedians,’ and is to be ‘written in the same vein as Christabel.’ At
the close of this letter he mentions that if I cared to see newspaper
articles of general interest written by him, I could have them in
volumes.
“A later letter is written in rhymed couplets. After some four hundred
lines in verse, it finishes with a few lines in prose. The poem referred
to in previous letters is to be called _Geraldine_, but cannot be sent
as ‘a bookseller fellow needs to see it.’ He had hoped to raise the
character of this rhymed effusion by adding some verses on the Days of
Minstrelsy, but after keeping it six days he must dispatch it without. He
is to deliver a lecture on _Hamlet_ the following month, and the subject
is absorbing all his thoughts.
“Soon after this—about the close of 1873 or the beginning of the
following year—I was interested to find Caine was proposing to publish
a small monthly magazine, and he was good enough to ask me for a
contribution. There were, evidently, difficulties in the way of the
venture, small as it was. But he put all his usual energy into the
enterprise and communicated his enthusiasm to his friends, and in due
course the first number of _Stray Leaves_ appeared, with a lithographic
portrait of Henry Irving as a frontispiece. It had some modest literary
pretensions, though of no very distinctive character, and therefore
after prolonged expectation it was not quite surprising to read: ‘_Stray
Leaves_ has made no second appearance. It never will.’ But, meanwhile,
he has another and larger magazine in hand, and this time, with a view
of avoiding some of the difficulties which had beset him on his earlier
venture, in announcing _The Rambler Magazine_ he prints on the official
paper ‘T. H. H. Caine, Proprietor.’ I was obliged to take an interest
in the new magazine—Caine was so buoyantly sanguine of its success. I
therefore sent him a poem, and next, and more to the purpose, arranged
with a local bookseller to exhibit the poster and sell copies. I also
got a favourable review of the first number inserted in the newspaper
with which I was connected; and this ought to sell ‘at least three dozen
copies,’ he writes. The parcel for our town got unaccountably delayed,
but every copy was eventually distributed. Caine had been staying
at or near Keswick, and writes his astonishment that the poet Close
(a well-known character in those parts) had sold two hundred copies,
and was asking for a further hundred. But the letter containing this
information has a much more exciting piece of news. He had to-day replied
to an inquiry from ‘a man of means (heaps of money)’ concerning ‘the
establishment of a critical newspaper in Liverpool.’ He is willing to
conduct such a journal for three months if a sufficient guarantee fund is
provided, and already seeing the possible success of this fresh candidate
for Fame, says, if the project advances, I must return to Liverpool to
take a place on his staff.
“There was being published in Liverpool at this time a small weekly
journal called _The Town Crier_, satirising and criticising with more
or less good humour the affairs of the town. It is not necessary to
enter upon any details as to the establishment of this paper, but I was
interested in its existence because Caine had some sort of connection
with it. The editor and general factotum was our old schoolfellow William
Tirebuck, while Caine wrote for it, especially dramatic notices and
reviews, and acted as adviser generally, if I remember rightly. We were
all surely young enough to be engaged in such work, but Tirebuck was
our junior by a couple of years. I remember visiting Liverpool about
this time and calling at the small editorial sanctum out of South Castle
Street. I had already written a little for _The Town Crier_, and was
much interested in its career. It was a great time. Everybody was busy
preparing for the next day’s issue. The printer’s boy had brought a
bundle of galley proofs and was told he must not return without the rest
of the copy. There were confidential conferences over correspondence,
some of it purporting to divulge certain pieces of municipal jobbery;
final consideration of the article which sailed very near the wind in
denouncing a town scandal, in which a man of much wealth and no principle
was concerned. Everyone was in the highest spirits. Caine had come down
in his dinner hour, or had special leave, and when we had settled the
affairs of _The Town Crier_ and of the town generally, we went off to
a meal, not at all of an elaborate character, I admit, but graced by
overflowing good-fellowship and light-hearted wit.
“Meanwhile, the fortunes of _The Rambler_, notwithstanding that all the
copies of the first number were distributed and in some cases further
copies called for, were not in a flourishing way. The printer’s bill
was a very matter-of-fact document. No amount of generous self-denying
enthusiasm could alter its figures. Even reviews favourable and
unfavourable, and there was a liberal number of both kinds, did not solve
the problem. Caine rightly claimed that the widespread notice taken of
_The Rambler_ was some proof of its worth. One journal gave prominent
place to the opinion that ‘the contents of _The Rambler_ are bosh—pure,
unmitigated bosh,’ the style of the criticism at least indicating the
character of the journal. But the ‘bosh’ was not so unmitigated that
it could be disregarded. Nevertheless, the financial results were not
encouraging. He tried, in answer to a sympathetic inquiry on my part, to
let me know how matters stood. He says, ‘The last issue paid (cannot pay
more than) (or, rather, didn’t _pay_ at all, or paid on the wrong side)
fifty per cent.’ Then feeling that this was not exactly an enlightening
statement, he proceeds—‘I am really such a fool at business affairs and
so very little acquainted with the technicalities of trade as surely
to have made a mess of the last explanation.’ The substance of the
explanation was that they had reckoned on a loss, and had received half
of what they had calculated their proceeds might be, making the real
loss proportionately greater. He does not contemplate giving up; is
‘only disposed to _delay_ the issue of No. 2 in the hope of balancing
affairs.’ However, he never troubled any of his friends about the
financial difficulties; whatever the losses may have been, he squared
them without the aid of his fellow-contributors. The second number did
appear, somewhat belated, but that was the end of Caine’s amateur efforts
at floating a magazine.
“When I returned to Liverpool in the beginning of 1875, to prepare myself
for college, I had an opportunity of renewing my personal intercourse
with Caine. It was a very pleasant time to me. We had one or two
congenial friends and with them or ourselves alone had a long succession
of talks upon the subjects that interested us. I think he generally
determined the course of our conversation. Earlier in life he had been
greatly under the sway of Coleridge. By this time his tastes had widened
and were more varied. He had much to say about Wordsworth. I recall an
evening when he was full of the _Ode to Immortality_, which he quoted
at great length—as he could most things he admired—and discussed with
great insight and power. But the range of subjects we ventured upon was
wide and varied enough to suit all tastes and dispositions. I can by no
means recall them all, but I remember such subjects as the writings of
Jean Paul, the Aristotelian unities and the modern drama, the nature of
Hamlet’s madness, and Shakespearian subjects generally. Curiously enough,
we had little to say concerning Tennyson—_In Memoriam_ was the only poem
I remember discussing—and even less in regard to Browning, though I had
myself a vague conviction that Browning was the greater poet of the
two. But we frequently conversed about Rossetti, Swinburne and William
Morris. On many evenings when we felt little inclined for literary talks
we enjoyed lighter chat and gossip; while, occasionally, we turned to
graver subjects and speculated on eternal things with the calmness and
confidence which are part of youth’s prerogative. And though we were a
kind of peripatetic academy, we were happy enough, and seasoned our more
serious mental fare with a liberal share of laughter and fun.
“Apart from the little circle of friends with whom he thus associated—and
I recall him most easily during the midsummer months when I spent most
of my long vacation at home—I think he spent a solitary life. He was
little understood. The majority of the people he met being very dull
persons, they could note only his outward peculiarities, and I have no
doubt most of them set him down as an eccentric young man. They were
struck with his musical voice, his copious diction, his literary style
of speech, which I think they generally set down as an affectation. Yet
he could, when he chose, make himself interesting to very commonplace
people. He knew so many things. He found _them_ interesting in ways they
themselves little suspected. Then beside being a remarkable talker he was
never disposed to turn the conversation into a monologue. He was a most
sympathetic listener.
“For the sake of his health he often spent his week-ends at New Brighton,
at the mouth of the Mersey, and for some time had permanent lodgings
there. We were all compelled to visit him, for he was ever the most
hospitable of friends, and thought no trouble too great to bestow on
the comfort of those who were his guests. I was his guest overnight,
and specially recall his appearance at that time. He had grown as tall
as he is now, and was of spare habit. He wore his hair, which had lost
its early golden tinge, slightly longer than is usual. He had a striking
face—pale and clean-shaven, a refined expression, ample forehead, and
large, bright, intelligent eyes. For a student he walked very erect,
wore a close-fitting and fairly long frock-coat, many-buttoned and
double-breasted, and was very square-shouldered. He was a man easily
distinguished in a crowd.
“In my early days at college I had one special letter from Caine, and
with some reference to it my own particular reminiscences of my eminent
friend may come to a close. His younger brother John, a very fine young
fellow, was at the time dangerously ill. Very soon after he died of
consumptive disease. Hall Caine was subject to fits of depression, and
this event did not tend to relieve his thoughts. Yet I think the sad
event left him with more hope and fortitude. Trial and difficulty always
aroused the best in him. His letter, however, is very pathetic and
interesting. I gather that I must have written, in reply to an earlier
letter, that the stronger the natural affection, the greater the tendency
to magnify the danger. He replies that it would not be easy to exaggerate
the gravity of his brother’s case, though they are not without hope that
rest and nourishing food may do something to alleviate the lung disease.
The letter is full of frank disclosures of his thought and feeling. He
is preparing himself ‘for the utmost length and disaster.’ But his sad
philosophy can only say: ‘The best that can leave us is Life; the worst
that can come is Death; of which we may remember that if it be now, it
is not to come; if it be not to come, then it is now—the readiness is
all.’ My interpretation of his gloomy outlook as being not reality but
the creation of his own thought, he examines and analyses, yet without
comfort to himself. He feels how small is our power to choose our own
thoughts, ‘how entirely men are _born_ to convictions.’ He moralises over
a photograph of myself which I had sent him, and sees all my future in my
face. And so with himself. It is not because he has _chosen_ to think it
so, that to him—
“‘The world is wild, and rough, and steep, and ribbed,
And circle-bound with shades of misery.’
At the same time he declines Jean Paul’s advice to treat it all like a
dream. When we awake the dream-sorrow vanishes. ‘I tremble when I reflect
upon the horrible sceptic I should become, say rather the demon I should
be, if believing in a Godhead I should believe also the world to be
but a dream.’ The sight of the young life leaving behind all the happy
activities of existence here, and entering upon a succession of weary
days ‘doomed to peer through the darkness for the light of the fairer
morning’ touches him acutely; but it leads him to say that for his own
part he means to face life bravely. Once, indeed, in a time of spiritual
prostration ‘Actual Death’ seemed ‘less terrible than its shadow,’ but
‘I have grown out of the weakness of that period, and now intend, not
proudly, but resolutely, to meet life and go through with it.’ And he has
doubtless kept to the resolution, and through it achieved his present
position.”
* * * * *
It will be seen from the foregoing that whilst in Liverpool Hall Caine’s
life was an exceedingly busy one. With characteristic energy he threw
himself heart and soul into any work he undertook, and already a burning
ambition was urging him on to strain every nerve to gain his goal. His
mind developed quickly: long nights of study and deep thought, some
struggles of a material kind, and at least one tragic event made a man
of him long before his time. Not that he was ever anything of a recluse:
he was merely absorbed in his work, and the thoughts of the great minds
which he studied matured his judgment, and he crammed a lifetime of
experience into a few years. His connection with Rossetti was to ripen
many qualities of his mind, and strengthen his character.
The following letters of Ruskin were addressed to Caine a year or two
before the future novelist left Liverpool, and when he was in the midst
of the office, journalistic and lecturing work described by Mr Pierce and
Mr Rose. The first is dated November 8, 1878, and was written in reply to
an invitation of Mr Caine to deliver an address in Liverpool.
“MY DEAR SIR,—I have, of course, the deepest interest in your
work—and _for that reason_ must keep wholly out of it.
“I should drive myself mad again in a week if I thought of such
things.—I am doing botany and geology—and you, who are able for
it, must fight with rogues and fools. I will be no more plagued
by them.—Ever truly yours,
“J. RUSKIN.
“I wrote first page on reading your printed report before reading
your letter.
“MY DEAR SIR,—I am entirely hopeless of any good whatever against
these devilish modern powers and passions—my words choke me if I
try to speak.
“I know nothing of Liverpool—and what can I say there—but that it
has first to look after its poor—and the churches will take care
of themselves.
“Ever truly yours.”
The second letter, dated 27th December 1879, reads:—
“MY DEAR SIR,—A bad fit of weariness,—not to say worse—kept me
from fulfilling my promise. The paper you were good enough to
send me is safe, but I fear left at Herne Hill—it can be got at
if you require it.
“I am sincerely glad and grateful for all you tell me of your
proposed work.—Most truly yours,
“J. RUSKIN.”
Ruskin, however, was not the only famous writer who had his eye on the
young man working away in Liverpool. Already Matthew Arnold and Lord
Houghton had made friendly and encouraging advances—the former writing
him a long letter of praise concerning an essay of Caine’s which had
come into his hands, and the latter asking Henry Bright (the H. A. B.
of Hawthorne) to arrange an interview between himself and the rising
young _littérateur_. These marks of distinct encouragement from eminent
and well-loved men were a source of keen pleasure to Hall Caine; they
not only gave him confidence in his own powers, amid many discouraging
circumstances, but made him feel that his strenuous labour was not being
done in vain.