Produced by David Widger
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LORNA DOONE,
A Romance of Exmoor
by R. D. Blackmore
Copyright, 1889, by The Burrows Brothers Company
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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_.
[Illustration: xv.jpg Malmsmead]
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
destroyed all distinctive traits, and they might have been sheep-folds
or pig-sties, or any other innocent agricultural erection for aught
that we could tell. “Not a single house stood there but was the home of
murder,” says their historian. The suns and rains of two hundred and
odd years have effectually washed out their blood-stains, and there is
nothing left there but peace.
Some way beyond the ruins stands a small stone cottage of the most
modern order. We found it to be the abode of a shepherd, away with his
flock on the hills, but his wife, no shepherdess of the Dresden china
order, but a hearty and substantial dame, gave us a cordial welcome. She
was in a state of intense delight at our disappointment about the ruins,
and discussed the situation in that soft Somersetshire accent that gives
such breadth and jollity to the language. “E'll not vind it a beet loike
ta buik,” she said, with her cheery laugh. “Buik's weel mad' up; it
houlds 'ee loike, and 'ee can't put it by, but there's nobbut three
pairts o't truth. Hunnerds cooms up here to se't,” she added, with a
chuckle.
The fact is that the traditional and the ideal are as inextricably mixed
in this charming story of “Lorna Doone” as the thousand varieties of
seeds in the fairy tale which the princess was expected to sort out, and
it would be almost as difficult to separate them. Perhaps the best way,
after all, is--not to try.
Katharine Hillard.
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CONTENTS:
I. ELEMENTS OF EDUCATION
II. AN IMPORTANT ITEM
III. THE WARPATH OF THE DOONES
IV. A VERY RASH VISIT
V. AN ILLEGAL SETTLEMENT
VI. NECESSARY PRACTICE
VII. HARD IT IS TO CLIMB
VIII. A BOY AND A GIRL
IX. THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME
X. A BRAVE RESCUE AND A ROUGH RIDE
XI. TOM DESERVES HIS SUPPER
XII. A MAN JUSTLY POPULAR
XIII. MASTER HUCKABACK COMES IN
XIV. A MOTION WHICH ENDS IN A MULL
XV. QUO WARRANTO?
XVI. LORNA GROWS FORMIDABLE
XVII. JOHN IS BEWITCHED
XVIII. WITCHERY LEADS TO WITCHCRAFT
XIX. ANOTHER DANGEROUS INTERVIEW
XX. LORNA BEGINS HER STORY
XXI. LORNA ENDS HER STORY
XXII. A LONG SPRING MONTH
XXIII. A ROYAL INVITATION
XXIV. A SAFE PASS FOR KING'S MESSENGER
XXV. A GREAT MAN ATTENDS TO BUSINESS
XXVI. JOHN IS DRAINED AND CAST ASIDE
XXVII. HOME AGAIN AT LAST
XXVIII. JOHN HAS HOPE OF LORNA
XXIX. REAPING LEADS TO REVELLING
XXX. ANNIE GETS THE BEST OF IT
XXXI. JOHN FRY'S ERRAND
XXXII. FEEDING OF THE PIGS
XXXIII. AN EARLY MORNING CALLING
XXXIV. TWO NEGATIVES MAKE AN AFFIRMATIVE
XXXV. RUTH IS NOT LIKE LORNA
XXXVI. JOHN RETURNS TO BUSINESS
XXXVII. A VERY DESPERATE VENTURE
XXXVIII. A GOOD TURN FOR JEREMY
XXXIX. A TROUBLED STATE AND A FOOLISH JOKE
XL. TWO FOOLS TOGETHER
XLI. COLD COMFORT
XLII. THE GREAT WINTER
XLIII. NOT TOO SOON
XLIV. BROUGHT HOME AT LAST
XLV. A CHANGE LONG NEEDED
XLVI. SQUIRE FAGGUS MAKES SOME LUCKY HITS
XLVII. JEREMY IN DANGER
XLVIII. EVERY MAN MUST DEFEND HIMSELF
XLIX. MAIDEN SENTINELS ARE BEST
L. A MERRY MEETING A SAD ONE
LI. A VISIT FROM THE COUNSELLOR
LII. THE WAY TO MAKE THE CREAM RISE
LIII. JEREMY FINDS OUT SOMETHING
LIV. MUTUAL DISCOMFITURE
LV. GETTING INTO CHANCERY
LVI. JOHN BECOMES TOO POPULAR
LVII. LORNA KNOWS HER NURSE
LVIII. MASTER HUCKABACK'S SECRET
LIX. LORNA GONE AWAY
LX. ANNIE LUCKIER THAN JOHN
LXI. THEREFORE HE SEEKS COMFORT
LXII. THE KING MUST NOT BE PRAYED FOR
LXIII. JOHN IS WORSTED BY THE WOMEN
LXIV. SLAUGHTER IN THE MARSHES
LXV. FALLING AMONG LAMBS
LXVI. SUITABLE DEVOTION
LXVII. LORNA STILL IS LORNA
LXVIII. JOHN IS JOHN NO LONGER
LXIX. NOT TO BE PUT UP WITH
LXX. COMPELLED TO VOLUNTEER
LXXI. A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED
LXXII. THE COUNSELLOR AND THE CARVER
LXXIII. HOW TO GET OUT OF CHANCERY
LXXIV. BLOOD UPON THE ALTAR
LXXV. GIVE AWAY THE GRANDEUR
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CHAPTER I
ELEMENTS OF EDUCATION
If anybody cares to read a simple tale told simply, I, John Ridd, of the
parish of Oare, in the county of Somerset, yeoman and churchwarden, have
seen and had a share in some doings of this neighborhood, which I will
try to set down in order, God sparing my life and memory. And they who
light upon this book should bear in mind not only that I write for the
clearing of our parish from ill fame and calumny, but also a thing which
will, I trow, appear too often in it, to wit--that I am nothing more
than a plain unlettered man, not read in foreign languages, as a
gentleman might be, nor gifted with long words (even in mine own
tongue), save what I may have won from the Bible or Master William
Shakespeare, whom, in the face of common opinion, I do value highly. In
short, I am an ignoramus, but pretty well for a yeoman.
My father being of good substance, at least as we reckon in Exmoor, and
seized in his own right, from many generations, of one, and that the
best and largest, of the three farms into which our parish is divided
(or rather the cultured part thereof), he John Ridd, the elder,
churchwarden, and overseer, being a great admirer of learning, and well
able to write his name, sent me his only son to be schooled at Tiverton,
in the county of Devon. For the chief boast of that ancient town (next
to its woollen staple) is a worthy grammar-school, the largest in the
west of England, founded and handsomely endowed in the year 1604 by
Master Peter Blundell, of that same place, clothier.
Here, by the time I was twelve years old, I had risen into the upper
school, and could make bold with Eutropius and Cæsar--by aid of an
English version--and as much as six lines of Ovid. Some even said that
I might, before manhood, rise almost to the third form, being of a
persevering nature; albeit, by full consent of all (except my mother),
thick-headed. But that would have been, as I now perceive, an ambition
beyond a farmer's son; for there is but one form above it, and that made
of masterful scholars, entitled rightly “monitors”. So it came to
pass, by the grace of God, that I was called away from learning,
whilst sitting at the desk of the junior first in the upper school, and
beginning the Greek verb
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My eldest grandson makes bold to say that I never could have learned
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ten pages further on, being all he himself could manage, with plenty of
stripes to help him. I know that he hath more head than I--though never
will he have such body; and am thankful to have stopped betimes, with a
meek and wholesome head-piece.
[Illustration: 002.jpg John Ridd's School Desk]
But if you doubt of my having been there, because now I know so little,
go and see my name, “John Ridd,” graven on that very form. Forsooth,
from the time I was strong enough to open a knife and to spell my name,
I began to grave it in the oak, first of the block whereon I sate, and
then of the desk in front of it, according as I was promoted from one to
other of them: and there my grandson reads it now, at this present time
of writing, and hath fought a boy for scoffing at it--“John Ridd his
name”--and done again in “winkeys,” a mischievous but cheerful device,
in which we took great pleasure.
This is the manner of a “winkey,” which I here set down, lest child
of mine, or grandchild, dare to make one on my premises; if he does,
I shall know the mark at once, and score it well upon him. The scholar
obtains, by prayer or price, a handful of saltpetre, and then with the
knife wherewith he should rather be trying to mend his pens, what does
he do but scoop a hole where the desk is some three inches thick. This
hole should be left with the middle exalted, and the circumference dug
more deeply. Then let him fill it with saltpetre, all save a little
space in the midst, where the boss of the wood is. Upon that boss (and
it will be the better if a splinter of timber rise upward) he sticks the
end of his candle of tallow, or “rat's tail,” as we called it, kindled
and burning smoothly. Anon, as he reads by that light his lesson,
lifting his eyes now and then it may be, the fire of candle lays hold of
the petre with a spluttering noise and a leaping. Then should the pupil
seize his pen, and, regardless of the nib, stir bravely, and he will see
a glow as of burning mountains, and a rich smoke, and sparks going
merrily; nor will it cease, if he stir wisely, and there be a good store
of petre, until the wood is devoured through, like the sinking of a
well-shaft. Now well may it go with the head of a boy intent upon his
primer, who betides to sit thereunder! But, above all things, have good
care to exercise this art before the master strides up to his desk, in
the early gray of the morning.
Other customs, no less worthy, abide in the school of Blundell, such as
the singeing of nightcaps; but though they have a pleasant savour, and
refreshing to think of, I may not stop to note them, unless it be that
goodly one at the incoming of a flood. The school-house stands beside a
stream, not very large, called Lowman, which flows into the broad river
of Exe, about a mile below. This Lowman stream, although it be not fond
of brawl and violence (in the manner of our Lynn), yet is wont to flood
into a mighty head of waters when the storms of rain provoke it; and
most of all when its little co-mate, called the Taunton Brook--where
I have plucked the very best cresses that ever man put salt on--comes
foaming down like a great roan horse, and rears at the leap of the
hedgerows. Then are the gray stone walls of Blundell on every side
encompassed, the vale is spread over with looping waters, and it is a
hard thing for the day-boys to get home to their suppers.
And in that time, old Cop, the porter (so called because he hath copper
boots to keep the wet from his stomach, and a nose of copper also, in
right of other waters), his place is to stand at the gate, attending to
the flood-boards grooved into one another, and so to watch the torrents
rise, and not be washed away, if it please God he may help it. But long
ere the flood hath attained this height, and while it is only waxing,
certain boys of deputy will watch at the stoop of the drain-holes, and
be apt to look outside the walls when Cop is taking a cordial. And in
the very front of the gate, just without the archway, where the ground
is paved most handsomely, you may see in copy-letters done a great
P.B. of white pebbles. Now, it is the custom and the law that when
the invading waters, either fluxing along the wall from below the
road-bridge, or pouring sharply across the meadows from a cut called
Owen's Ditch--and I myself have seen it come both ways--upon the very
instant when the waxing element lips though it be but a single pebble of
the founder's letters, it is in the license of any boy, soever small
and undoctrined, to rush into the great school-rooms, where a score of
masters sit heavily, and scream at the top of his voice, “P.B.”
Then, with a yell, the boys leap up, or break away from their standing;
they toss their caps to the black-beamed roof, and haply the very books
after them; and the great boys vex no more the small ones, and the small
boys stick up to the great ones. One with another, hard they go, to see
the gain of the waters, and the tribulation of Cop, and are prone to
kick the day-boys out, with words of scanty compliment. Then the masters
look at one another, having no class to look to, and (boys being no more
left to watch) in a manner they put their mouths up. With a spirited
bang they close their books, and make invitation the one to the other
for pipes and foreign cordials, recommending the chance of the time, and
the comfort away from cold water.
But, lo! I am dwelling on little things and the pigeons' eggs of the
infancy, forgetting the bitter and heavy life gone over me since then.
If I am neither a hard man nor a very close one, God knows I have had no
lack of rubbing and pounding to make stone of me. Yet can I not somehow
believe that we ought to hate one another, to live far asunder, and
block the mouth each of his little den; as do the wild beasts of the
wood, and the hairy outrangs now brought over, each with a chain upon
him. Let that matter be as it will. It is beyond me to unfold, and
mayhap of my grandson's grandson. All I know is that wheat is better
than when I began to sow it.