After the death of Rossetti, Hall Caine spent eighteen months in daily journalism in London writing his Rossetti recollections, and reviewing books, etc., for the Academy and Athen?um. He was also employed as a leader-writer on the Liverpool Mercury at a salary beginning at a hundred pounds per annum. This life, honourable and fascinating as it was, did not satisfy him, however. He was beginning to look further afield. Besides, he was being dominated by the legend which was to be the germ of his first novel.

So, in order to obtain complete immunity from all interruption, social and professional, he “settled in a little bungalow of three rooms in a garden near the beach at Sandown in the Isle of Wight.” In the[83] meantime he had married, and at the time of settling at Sandown he had enough money to keep him going for about four months. But his story was deeply rooted in his mind and heart, and he feared nothing—not even failure. The legend that so dominated him was as follows. (I quote from The Idler, to which magazine Mr Caine contributed an article entitled My First Book):—

“One of the oldest legends of the Lake mountains tells of the time of the plague. The people were afraid to go to market, afraid to meet at church and afraid to pass on the highway. When any lonely body was ill, the nearest neighbour left meat and drink at the door of the afflicted house, and knocked and ran away. In these days a widow and two sons lived in one of the darkest of the valleys. The younger son died, and the body had to be carried over the mountains to be buried. Its course lay across Sty Head Pass, a bleak and ‘brant’ place, where the winds are often high. The eldest son, a strong-hearted lad,[84] undertook the duty. He strapped the coffin on to the back of a young horse, and they started away. The day was wild, and on the top of the pass, where the path dips into Wastdale, between the breast of Great Gable and the heights of Scawfell, the wind rose to a gale. The horse was terrified. It broke away and galloped over the fells, carrying its burden with it. The lad followed and searched for it, but in vain, and he had to go home at last, unsatisfied.

“This was in the spring, and nearly all the summer through the surviving son of the widow was out on the mountains, trying to recover the runaway horse, but never once did he catch sight of it, though sometimes, as he turned homeward at night, he thought he heard, in the gathering darkness, above the sough of the wind, the horse’s neigh. Then winter came, and the mother died. Once more the dead body had to be carried over the fells for burial, and once again the coffin was strapped on the back of a horse. It was an old mare that was chosen this time, the mother of the young[85] one that had been lost. The snow lay deep on the pass, and from the cliffs of the Scawfell pikes it hung in great toppling masses. All went well with the little funeral party until they came to the top of the pass, and though the day was dead calm the son held the rein with a hand that was like a vice. But just as the mare reached the spot where the wind had frightened the young horse, there was a terrific noise. An immense body of the snow had parted at that instant from the beetling heights overhead, and rushed down into the valley with the movement as of a mighty earthquake, and the deafening sound as of a peal of thunder. The dale echoed and re-echoed from side to side, and from height to height. The old mare was affrighted; she reared, leapt, flung her master away, and galloped off. When they had recovered from their consternation, the funeral party gave chase, and at length, down in a hollow place, they thought they saw what they were in search of. It was a horse with something strapped on its[86] back. When they came up with it they found it was the young horse, with the coffin of the younger son. They led it away, and buried the body that it had carried so long, but the old mare they never recovered, and the body of the mother never found sepulchre.”

It will be seen at a glance that this legend contains great dramatic and imaginative possibilities, but for Hall Caine its fascination lay in its “shadow and suggestion of the supernatural.” When Rossetti was still alive, Mr Caine had discussed with him its merits as the foundation for a novel; but the poet, as we have seen, was against the idea. He did not see the possibility of getting any sympathy into it. This judgment, coming from so expert and experienced a quarter, disheartened the younger man, and he “let the idea go back to the dark chambers of memory.” But it was of no use, the ghost would not be laid. The idea recurred to him at intervals, and each time it impressed him more and more. At last, when settled[87] in the Isle of Wight, he thought he had found a way of evading Rossetti’s criticism. “The sympathy was to be got out of the elder son. He was to think God’s hand was upon him. But whom God’s hand rested on had God at his right hand; so the elder son was to be a splendid fellow—brave, strong, calm, patient, long-suffering, a victim of unrequited love, a man standing square on his legs against all weathers.” Then he began to write; but he was faced by a thousand difficulties. It was his desire to grip the reader’s interest from the very outset, and it took him a fortnight’s hard work to make what he judged to be a satisfactory beginning. Within three months it was practically finished. He showed it first to Mr J. S. Cotton, an old and valued friend and at that time editor of the Academy. “His rapid mind saw a new opportunity. ‘You want peine forte et dure,’ he said. ‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘An old punishment—a beautiful thing,’ he answered. ‘Where’s my dear old Blackstone?’ and the statute concerning the[88] punishment for standing mute was read to me. It was just the thing I wanted for my hero, and I was in rapture, but I was also in despair. To work this fresh interest into my theme half of what I had written would need to be destroyed!”

But destroyed it was, and after two months’ arduous labour, he took it to the late John Lovell, editor of the Liverpool Mercury. “It’s crude,” he said. “But it only wants sub-editing.” Imagine the young author’s feelings! Sub-editing, indeed! But again he re-wrote it, and this time to some purpose, for Mr Lovell offered him a hundred pounds for the serial right in the Liverpool Weekly Mercury. This offer was, of course, accepted.

Mr Caine was now living in rooms on the fourth floor of New Court, in Lincoln’s Inn. He called upon several publishers with the object of getting his novel issued in volume form; eventually Chatto & Windus made him an offer which he accepted, and at this date the book has gone through more editions than I care to[89] count. It was an immediate and undoubted success, and the only thing that Mr Caine regrets with regard to it is the fact that he was forced to sell it outright instead of on the royalty system. Hard cash was what he wanted, though the amount he received in ready money would have been trebled many times over if he had been paid according to the number of copies sold.

As the first novel of a young man (and, at this time, Mr Caine was quite painfully young) The Shadow of a Crime shows little evidence of crudity. It is coherent, cohesive and mature. It is true, the melodramatic interest is often too insistent, and that the novelist expects too much from the credulity of the reader; but these faults apart, the book is the book of a grown man and a practised writer. It evinces an intimate knowledge of Cumberland life and dialect, and has the dignity and strength of a work of genius.

After the publication of The Shadow of a Crime a time of need ensued. He canvassed many publishers and offered himself[90] as reader, but he was invariably turned away. Whatever indignity and humiliation was thrust upon him only made him more determined to succeed. He never knew when he was beaten. He never was beaten, for he never withdrew from his hand-to-hand fight with the world, but struggled on with the passionate conviction that he would one day come off the winner. So, undaunted, he set about the writing of a new work, A Son of Hagar.

When this book was nearing completion, he expressed a wish to Mr Richard Gowing to dedicate it to Mr R. D. Blackmore, the author of Lorna Doone. Mr Gowing, who was a friend of Mr Blackmore’s, immediately communicated with him and received the following reply:—

“Teddington, December 21, 1886.

“My Dear Mr Gowing,—It will give me great pleasure to find a work of Mr Hall Caine’s inscribed to myself. I have not read any book of his, although I have wished to do so. The Shadow of a Crime slipped by me somehow, when I was very busy; but I know that it was a fine work. My name is not of such repute that he need entertain any fear of misconstruction. His own work will lead him on; if he shows the proper[91] value for it, in the care which makes it good—as I gather from his letter that he does. Please to tell him that I am proud of his goodwill and approval. I hope that you are doing well, and offer my best wishes for the Christmas, and the coming year.

“For myself, I met with an accident last June, which crippled me for several months; but at last I begin to plod again, and renew my acquaintance with plant and tree. They are all in great tribulation now, and many will never see the coming year.—Believe me, with kind regards, very truly yours,

“R. D. Blackmore.”

Three months later he wrote the following letter to Mr Caine himself:—

“Teddington, March 14, 1887.

“My Dear Mr Caine,—Your publishers have kindly sent me a copy of The Shadow of a Crime, and I am reading it carefully. Your style does not permit any skipping; no work that does so is of much value. So far as I can yet judge, the book is full of power and true imagination. To the critical gift I have no claim; but I seem to myself to know when I come across genuine matter. And you have also that respect for yourself and your readers which is a sine qua non for the achievement of great work. However, I will not show my own deficiency in that quality by offering premature remarks; only I am eager to express my impressions of pleasure and admiration.

“I hope that your health will soon be restored, and your mind refreshed with total change. I find myself much under par, with long bronchial attack.

[92]

“Your second work, A Son of Hagar, will be looked for by me with eager anticipation; but The Shadow of a Crime will hold me for at least a week, in my present state; as I can only read at night, and am bound just now to keep early hours.

“I have not heard a word about Springhaven, whether it goes, or sticks fast; except that an extract from the Whitehall Review of last week has been sent to me.

“With many thanks for your kind words, and all good wishes for your work,—I am, always truly yours,

“R. D. Blackmore.”

A Son of Hagar was completed in 1886, as was also a life of Coleridge which was written in three weeks. The former brought him three hundred pounds; the latter thirty pounds. Coleridge had always been a favourite study of Hall Caine’s; we have seen that as a young man in Liverpool he was particularly attracted towards his work, and the incidents of the great poet’s life had received his careful and unremitting attention. But the series for which it was written was one devoted to brief biographies only, and Mr Caine was unable to make use of the vast store of knowledge which he had so patiently acquired. Still, the biography was one of the best of the series, and though it[93] brought neither fame nor fortune to its author, it undoubtedly did something towards establishing his reputation as an original and thoughtful critic.

A Son of Hagar was written on somewhat the same lines as The Shadow of a Crime; that is to say, there is the same knowledge of the life of the Cumberland people of the “statesman” class, the same intimate acquaintance with Cumberland dialect, and the same partiality for melodrama and, one must acknowledge, improbable incident. Judged by present-day standards, this book achieved what would be called remarkable popular success; but the success was not sufficient to satisfy the consuming ambition of the young novelist. He said to himself, “I will write one more book. I will put into it all the work that is in me, and if the public still remains indifferent, I will never write another.” These words, uttered in the heat of the moment, must be taken cum grano salis; for I feel convinced that if Mr Caine had written ten or a dozen unsuccessful works, he would still have continued[94] faithful to the novel as a means of expressing his own personality and his views of the complex individual and social life as he has found it, not only in history, but in these hot, passionate days of a new century. Yet, the fact remains, that what he chose to consider his limited success did not satisfy him.

I am privileged to give the following letters written by Mr Blackmore to Mr Caine during the year 1887.

“Teddington.

“My Dear Mr Caine,—I thank you heartily for your kind letter, and look forward to the pleasure of reading your new work, which I have not seen as yet.

“From what Mr Gowing said, I feared that you were not at present in strong health, and I trust that you will not allow yourself to be worried by doubts about your work, or distressed by too zealous exertion. However untidy your garden may be—and it can scarcely be worse than mine—the Son of Hagar should be expelled for some hours daily from that quiet spot.”

Mr Blackmore then proceeds to give vent to the irritation which he felt towards humanity in general, and his publisher’s corrector of proofs in particular. This latter gentleman seems to have had his own ideas as to correct grammar and punctuation; these[95] ideas, however, did not coincide with those of Mr Blackmore. He adds:—

“The main point is to take them easily; even as one does the supernatural wisdom of Reviewers.

“With the best wishes for your new story—may the Son be the child of promise!—I am, dear sir, very truly yours,

“R. D. Blackmore.”

“Hall Caine, Esq.”

The second letter was written concerning Caine’s Life of Coleridge—interesting for its reference to the first reviews of Lorna Doone.

“Teddington, May 7, 1887.

“My Dear Mr Caine,—I am deeply engaged with your interesting book, and thank you for so kindly sending it. The Son of Hagar has not come this way yet, and I put him vainly upon my book-list. However, it is good not to have one’s pleasures too abundantly—commendat rarior usus.

“Have you ever dealt at all with ?, the great ‘organiser’ of Newspaper novels? He has asked me more than once to be distributed in that way; but hitherto I have declined. His terms are fair—so far as I can judge—and he seems a sharp man of business. Writers of higher repute than mine have marched under his standard; but I doubt me whether my ‘politics’ would suit his mighty horde.

“I conclude that you have left the Isle of Man, and hope you are working at a book of the quocunque jeceris stabit. Any work of yours will now command a larger[96] circle than the critics; to whom (like myself) you owe little. If the matter were of more interest, I would print the first notices of Lorna Doone, which they now quote as a standard. I have them somewhere, and a damp bed they are to smother a shy guest in. But you know well enough how these men fumble the keys of an open door.

“I must now be off to my pipes and Coleridge. I am heartily glad to find you [1] against that far inferior—and, to my mind, prosy fellow—Southey.—With kind regards, I am very truly yours,

“R. D. Blackmore.”

“Hall Caine, Esq.”

[1] Word undecipherable.

Mr Caine has inscribed this note at the head of the following. “This letter was written about A Son of Hagar, which was dedicated to Blackmore. The censorious part of it is very just.—H. C.”

“Teddington, August 25, 1887.

“My Dear Mr Caine,—I would not write again until I had read your book, which I have now done with great care. My opinion is of very little value, but so far as I can distinctly form one, it is nearly as follows. There is any amount of vigour and power, and some real pathos (which is, of course, a part of power), also there are many other merits—strong English style, great knowledge of character, keen observation, and much originality.

“But I think you will improve upon this book vastly, as experience grows. The incidents appear to me to be huddled, without sense of proportion now and then, and there is much strain upon credulity. But I am loth to[97] find fault, knowing that I am not a skilled workman myself.

“We are just leaving home, in the hope—probably a vain one—of doing some good to my helpless hand, whose failure is a great loss to me in every branch of garden work. I think of invading T. Hardy’s land—Swanage or the neighbourhood, almost the only part of the southern coast unknown to me. Further I would gladly go, but my wife cannot bear a long journey, or changes of conveyance. After our return I shall be very glad to see you, though I cannot advise much about Wales. North Wales is, of course, much the more picturesque, and the style of the natives more Cymric; whereas I am chiefly acquainted with the south. The love of truth seems to have been overlooked in the composition of Welsh character. The lower classes do not even resent the charge of lying, and consider it disgraceful mainly as a blot upon their intellect. But I must not be hard upon them, as my mother’s family, though English in the main, possessed many veins of Taffic fluid.

“I hope that you are now in strong health again, after the passing of the solid hot waves. As a fruit-grower, I have suffered bitter woes, some of my trees having shed all their fruit and none having fine crop as they promised. The rain came in earnest last week, but too late, and now we could take as much again.—With all good wishes, I am, truly yours,

“R. D. Blackmore.”