LORNA DOONE,
A Romance of Exmoor
by R. D. Blackmore
Copyright, 1889, by The Burrows Brothers Company
PREFACE
This work is called a “romance,” because the incidents, characters,
time, and scenery, are alike romantic. And in shaping this old tale, the
Writer neither dares, nor desires, to claim for it the dignity or cumber
it with the difficulty of an historic novel.
And yet he thinks that the outlines are filled in more carefully, and
the situations (however simple) more warmly coloured and quickened, than
a reader would expect to find in what is called a “legend.”
And he knows that any son of Exmoor, chancing on this volume, cannot
fail to bring to mind the nurse-tales of his childhood--the savage deeds
of the outlaw Doones in the depth of Bagworthy Forest, the beauty of
the hapless maid brought up in the midst of them, the plain John Ridd's
Herculean power, and (memory's too congenial food) the exploits of Tom
Faggus.
March, 1869.
PREFACE TO THE SIXTH EDITION
Few things have surprised me more, and nothing has more pleased me, than
the great success of this simple tale.
For truly it is a grand success to win the attention and kind regard,
not of the general public only, but also of those who are at home with
the scenery, people, life, and language, wherein a native cannot always
satisfy the natives.
Therefore any son of Devon may imagine, and will not grudge, the
Writer's delight at hearing from a recent visitor to the west that
'“Lorna Doone,' to a Devonshire man, is as good as clotted cream,
almost!”
Although not half so good as that, it has entered many a tranquil,
happy, pure, and hospitable home, and the author, while deeply grateful
for this genial reception, ascribes it partly to the fact that his story
contains no word or thought disloyal to its birthright in the fairest
county of England.
January, 1873.
PUBLISHERS' PREFACE
In putting this new and somewhat elaborate edition of “Lorna Doone” upon
a market already supplied with various others, some of them excellent
in quality, we ask the literary men and women of the country to give us
their kind support for the reasons set forth herewith.
In the first place, it seems to us that of the countless thousands of
books that have been written in all the various languages, and during
the many ages since first man took to scribbling, no one has ever
yet appeared which is the equal of this in its delicate and beautiful
touches of both nature and human nature. We have had, in various ways,
abundant proof that our feeling in this respect is not individual to
ourselves, and we desire to thank heartily the many friends who have
sent us their words and letters of encouragement, sympathy, and interest
during the past year as they have by chance become aware of our plans.
While there were creditable editions already published, the fact that
none existed just such as we ourselves wished for our own library was
our primary incentive in undertaking this task. The labor upon which
we entered was in short, one of love, and great as has been the
expenditure of time, trouble, and money in the preparation of this book,
we have faith to believe that there are a sufficient number of lovers of
the peerless maiden, _Lorna_, to greet her appearance in this new dress
with an enthusiasm that will in time repay us.
We earnestly hope that our judgment in the selection of artists, means,
and materials has been, in the main, at least, wise, and that such, will
be the verdict of book-lovers. Also, we hope that our lack of experience
as publishers will disarm the critic, and that he will examine the book
regarding only the excellences which he may find, and passing over its
defects.
One special feature we wish particularly to call to the attention of
all, and that is the beautiful map of the country we have introduced.
This may be regarded by some as an innovation in a romance, but we
hope that it will be found such a manifest convenience as to be its own
sufficient excuse.
In this place it seems to be a duty, also, to call attention to the
sympathizing and intelligent interest that has been so freely shown by
the noble band of workers, artists, printers, engravers, etc., who have
assisted us upon this work. To Mr. Henry Sandham, Mr. George Wharton
Edwards, Mr. Harry Fenn, Mr. William Hamilton Gibson, Mr. W. H. Drake,
Mr. Irving R. Wiles, Mr. George E. Graves, Mr. Charles Copeland, Mr.
Harper Pennington, Mrs. Margaret MacDonald Pullman, Miss Harriet Thayer
Durgin, Mr. A. V. S. Anthony, Mr. George T. Andrew, Goupil & Co. of
Paris, Mr. Kurtz, The Wright Gravure Co., Mr. Fillebrown, Mr. William J.
Dana, and our very able printers, Messrs. Fleming, Brewster & Alley-to
them all we therefore extend our cordial acknowledgment of our
indebtedness for their services. The fine map is the work of Messrs.
Matthews, Northrup & Co.
Very respectfully,
The Burrows Brothers Co.
PREFACE BY MISS KATHARINE HILLARD
Author Of “The Doones Of Exmoor,” In “Harper's Magazine,” Vol. LXV. Page
835.
A novel that has stood the test of time so well as Mr. Blackmore's
charming story of “Lorna Doone” scarcely needs a preface. Certainly no
word of introduction is necessary to testify to its exquisite humor, its
dramatic force, its under-current of poetic feeling, its fine touches of
landscape-painting, and the novelty and interest of its subject. Since
it first appeared in 1869 all these have become as household words,
only, perhaps, all the admirers of “Lorna Doone” have not had the good
fortune to wander through the romantic and picturesque region where
the scene of the story is laid. To travel in North Devon, and over its
border into Somerset (“the Summerland,” as the old Northmen call it),
is to be confronted with the scenes of the novel at every turn; for Mr.
Blackmore has so successfully woven the legends of the whole countryside
into his story that one grows to believe it a veritable history, and is
as disappointed to find traces of the romancer's own hand here and there
as to find the hills and valleys laid bare of the forests which adorned
them in the time of the Doones.
It is a singular country, this Devonshire coast, made up as it is of
a series of rocky headlands jutting far out into the sea, and holding
between their stretching arms deep fertile wooded valleys called
_combes_ (pronounced _coomes_), watered by trout and salmon streams, and
filled with an Italian profusion of vegetation, myrtles and fuchsias,
growing in the open air, and the walls hidden with a luxuriant tapestry
of ferns and ivies and blossoming vines. Even the roofs are covered with
flowers; every cranny bears a blossom or a tuft of green. Then above,
long stretches of barren heath (with a few twisted and wind-tortured
trees), where the sheep pasture and the sky-lark sings, and in and out
of the red-fronted cliffs the querulous sea-gulls flash in the sunshine,
and make their plaintive moan. Near Lynton there is the famous Valley of
Rocks, where the wise woman, _Mother Melldrum_, had her winter quarters
under the Devil's Cheese-wring.
The irregular pile of rocks that goes by this name is wrongly called
Cheese-_ring_ (or _scoop_) in some editions of “Lorna Doone,” instead
of Cheese-_wring_ or (_press_), which it somewhat resembles in shape.
Southey began the fortune of Lynton as a watering-place, and wrote
a glowing description of the village and the Valley of Rocks. Of the
latter he says: “A palace of the pre-Adamite kings, a city of the Anakim
must have appeared so shapeless and yet so like the ruins of what had
been shaped after the waters of the flood subsided.” Great bowlders,
half hidden by the bracken, lie about in wildest confusion; the remains
of what seem to be Druidic circles can be traced here and there, and it
is hard to persuade one's self that the ragged towers and picturesque
piles of rock are not the work of Cyclopean architects.
“Our home-folk always call it the 'Danes,' or the 'Denes,' which is no
more, they tell me, than a hollow place, even as the word 'den' is,”
says _John Ridd_. “It is a pretty place,” he adds, “though nothing to
frighten any body, unless he hath lived in a gallipot.” The valley is
well protected from the wind, and “there is shelter and dry fern-bedding
and folk to be seen in the distance from a bank whereon the sun shines.”
Here _John Ridd_ came to consult the wise woman toward the end of March,
while the weather was still cold and piercing. In the warm days of
summer she lived “in a pleasant cave facing the cool side of the hill,
far inland, near Hawkridge, and close over Tarr-steps--a wonderful
crossing of Barle River, made (as every body knows) by Satan for a
wager.” But the antiquarians of to-day assert that the curious steps
were made by the early British.
Not far beyond the Valley of Rocks are the grounds of Ley Abbey, a
modern mansion, but occupying the site of Lev Manor, to whose owner,
_Baron de Whichehalse, John Ridd_ accompanies _Master Huckaback_ in
search of a warrant against the _Doones_. In fact, all the way from
Barnstaple over the parapet of whose bridge _Tom Faggus_ leaped his
wonderful mare, every nook and corner of the countryside teems with
legends of the _Doones_. From Lynton we drive over the border into
Porlock, in Somerset that quaint little village where Coleridge wrote
his “Kubla Khan,” and where Lord Lovelace brought Ada Byron to his seat
of Ashley Combe.
It was while riding home from Porlock market that _John Ridd's_ father
was murdered by the _Doones_, and from Porlock we drove in a pony-trap
over the high moors to Malmsmead, in search of the ruined huts of the
_Doones_.
Over the heights of Yarner Moor, and past Oare Ford (now bridged over),
the road lay past the old church of Oare, where _Lorna Doone_ and _John
Ridd_ were married, and then into the deep flowery lanes that are the
glory of Devon and Somerset. Malmsmead proved to be a little cluster of
heavily thatched cottages, nestled under overhanging trees, where stood
an ancient signboard with “Ba_d_gworthy” on one of its arms, pointing
the way we should go. This _d_ on the old sign-board accounted for the
local pronunciation of _Badgery_, as the river is always called.
At Malmsmead the road ends, and thence one must proceed on foot. Several
deep and flowery lanes lead one at length to the river where a lonely
stone cottage stands on its further brink. This is Clowd Farm, and here
all paths cease. Two hundred years ago, in the time of the _Doones_,
the narrow valley through which the Bagworthy now dances in the open
sunshine was filled with trees; but now, with the exception of a
withered and stunted old orchard and grove near the farm, there is not a
tree to be seen, and the Bagworthy, a lonely but cheerful trout stream,
rattles along in the broad sunshine through a deep valley, whose sides
slope steeply upward.
After walking about three miles into the heart of the wilderness,
another deep glen, shut in by the same sloping heather-covered hills,
suddenly opens to the right. There are no cliffs, no overhanging trees,
not even a bush, but all along the stream, “with its soft, dark babble,”
lie heaps and half-circles of stone nearly buried in the turf, and
almost hidden by the tall ferns and foxgloves. And this is what we went
out for to see! These are the ruins of the _Doones'_ huts. There could
not be anything more disappointing. Two hundred years have effectually