His next drama, The Manxman, was also produced by Mr Wilson Barrett in Leeds on August 20, 1894. It was successful everywhere “except in Manchester and New York.” I do not quite understand Mr Caine’s statement that The Manxman was not a success in Manchester, for I myself remember climbing up on to the top row of the gallery at the Theatre Royal (or was it the Prince’s?) because there was no room anywhere else. On that occasion the theatre was crowded, and the reception enthusiastic in every way. Perhaps it was a “return visit” that I witnessed, and the Manchester public had had time to gather its wits and become appreciative.
His third play, The Christian, was produced first in Albany, New York, and afterwards in Liverpool. In this play the dramatist’s sister, Miss Lily Hall Caine, took the part of Polly Love, and afterwards, when the play was taken on tour, the part of Glory Quayle. This play is still running, and meets with enthusiastic applause wherever it goes. It has been performed in England and the United States more than two thousand times.
In passing any criticism on Mr Caine’s plays, it must at the very outset be confessed that he has not yet done himself justice. For my own part, I have not much faith in the dramatised versions of novels. A plot that lends itself to treatment in the form of a novel is very rarely suitable for production as a drama; and until Hall Caine is inspired with the plot of a drama that is at once cohesive and compact, it seems to me he will never produce anything worthy of the powers which he undoubtedly possesses. Some regard to the unities of Time and Place is necessary before a drama can be considered seriously as a work of art, and it must be acknowledged that Mr Caine pays very little attention to the technique of dramaturgy. I do not for one moment deny that his plays are full of strong and dramatic situations, that the dialogue is natural, easy and telling, and that they are exceedingly well-constructed from a “popular” standard; but as contributions to dramatic literature they cannot be seriously considered. Mr Caine himself would, I feel sure, be the first to agree with me in all this. I know that he does not consider his dramatic work to be on anything like the same plane as his novel-writing. It is rather a matter of surprise that a writer gifted with so well-developed a dramatic sense should have been comparatively unsuccessful in his plays; but, so far as one can judge, it seems probable that this is due to the fact that he has only attempted plays based on novels. When he shall have developed a plot which obviously lends itself to stage treatment and no other kind of treatment, he may be expected to write a drama which shall take the same position in dramatic literature that his novels have attained in the world of fiction.
In the way of short story writing Mr Caine has done little. A volume entitled Capt’n Davy’s Honeymoon, containing three tales, is his only output in this direction. Their excellence, and the delicacy of their treatment, make one regret that he has not seen fit to devote more time to this particular branch of his art. Capt’n Davy’s Honeymoon refutes conclusively all allegations that Mr Caine possesses little or no humour. It is a Manx tale, full of delicate, beautiful touches that create the right atmosphere at the very outset. The second story in the volume, The Last Confession, is situated in Morocco, and in form is based on Rossetti’s blank-verse poem of the same name. It is a closely-written piece of work, quietly and soberly worked out, yet powerful and convincing. The Blind Mother is the title of the third tale, and consists of a slightly altered episode in his second book, A Son of Hagar. I quote the following extracts of the dedication to Mr Bram Stoker:—
… Down to this day our friendship has needed no solder of sweet words to bind it, and I take pleasure in showing by means of this unpretending book that it is founded not only on personal liking and much agreement, but on some wholesome difference and even a little disputation. The Last Confession is an attempt to solve a moral problem which we have discussed from opposite poles of sympathy—the absolute value and sanctity of human life, the right to fight, the right to kill, the right to resist evil and to set aside at utmost need the letter of the sixth commandment. The Blind Mother is a somewhat altered version of an episode in an early romance, and it is presented afresh, with every apology, because you with another friend, Theodore Watts, consider it the only worthy part of an unworthy book, and also because it appears to be at all points a companion to the story that goes before it. Of Capt’n Davy’s Honeymoon, I might perhaps say that it is the complement of the other two—all three being stories of great and consuming love, father’s, mother’s and husband’s—but I prefer to confess that I publish it because I know if anyone should smile at my rough Manx comrade, doubting if such a man is in nature and not found among men, I can always answer him and say, “Ah, then, I am richer than you are by one friend at least,—Capt’n Davy without his ruggedness and without his folly, but with his simplicity, his unselfishness and his honour—Bram Stoker!”
A charming dedication, is it not? and interesting as a revelation of the motives which inspired the only three short stories we have from his pen. The Last Confession and The Blind Mother were issued in America under the title of the former. It is extremely unlikely that Mr Caine will ever return to the short story as a means of expressing himself; the form is of too limited a scope, and of too ephemeral a nature. A story entitled Jan, the Icelander, recently appeared in one of the weekly papers; but it was originally prepared by Mr Caine as a dramatic dialogue which, on one or two occasions, he recited in public.
As a poet, Mr Hall Caine has a great claim to our admiration. It is true, he has published no poetry in volume form, and little enough in the magazines, but what has appeared is of undoubted beauty. I am able to give here two sonnets which originally appeared in the Academy in the early eighties. Then, as now, the Academy and the Athenæum were the two foremost literary papers in the kingdom, and at this time Mr Caine was a critic on the permanent staff of both papers. It will be seen that both sonnets reveal a deep and unusual love of Nature; and it seems to me that that entitled Before Sunrise on Helvellyn ranks with the very best sonnets of Wordsworth. Besides its intrinsic beauty, it contains that “fundamental brain-work” which many critics hold to be an essential of a fine sonnet, although Mr Caine’s own criticism is that “it is wanting in the first quality of poetic style—flexibility.”
BEFORE SUNRISE ON HELVELLYN
Over the peaks of huge crags uncreate,