The Blackmore Country

by F. J. Snell

PROLOGUE

The “Blackmore Country” is an expression requiring some amount of definition, as it clearly will not do to make it embrace the whole of the territory which he annexed, from time to time, in his various works of fiction, nor even every part of Devon in which he has laid the scenes of a romance. The latter point may perhaps be open to discussion in the sense that, ideally, the glamour of his writing ought to rest with its full might of memory on all the neighbourhoods of the West around which he drew his magic circle. As a fact, however, it is North Devon and a slice of the sister county that form his literary patrimony, while Dartmoor is a more general possession, which he failed to seal with the same staunch and archetypal impression. There have been many good Dartmoor stories, and one instinctively associates that region with the names of Baring-Gould and Eden Phillpotts; with Blackmore, hardly at all. But from Exmoor to Barnstaple, and from Lynton to Tiverton, he reigns supreme—and naturally, for this was his homeland, which, through all its length and breadth, he knew with an intimacy, and loved with a devotion, and portrayed with a skill, that will surely never again be the portion of any child of Devon.

Richard Doddridge Blackmore was born on June 7, 1825, at Longworth, in Berkshire—a circumstance which raises the delicate and important question whether, after all, he can be justly claimed as a Devonshire man. On the whole, I think, the question may be answered affirmatively, although it is evident that he cannot possibly be described as a native of the county. Who, however, would dream of depriving an Englishman of his nationality merely for the accident of his being born abroad, unless indeed he deliberately abandoned that proud title and threw in his lot with the country of his birth, to the exclusion of his ancestral home? And this practically represents the state of affairs as regards Blackmore. In one sense it must be admitted he did not remain constant to his Devonshire connections, inasmuch as he resided through a great part of his life, and to the day of his death, at Teddington, in Middlesex. But as against this must be set the facts that he descended from an old North Devon stock, a stock so old that it may fairly be termed indigenous, and that his boyish experiences were almost entirely confined within the county. To these weighty considerations may be added that he eventually became possessor of the ancient residence of his race, that he always manifested the warmest interest in county concerns, and that his great achievement in literature was inspired by West-country legend. That well-known authority, the Rev. J. F. Chanter, worthy son of a worthy sire, would like to say “Devon” legend, and much may be urged in favour of his contention, notwithstanding that modern Exmoor is altogether in Somerset. He points out, for instance, that Bagworthy (or “Badgery”) Wood, the centre of the Doone traditions, is in Devon. Still it were better, perhaps, to consider Lorna Doone in the light of a border romance. Indeed, on an impartial survey, it seems almost necessary to adopt this view; and Blackmore himself was anything but unwilling to recognise, and even to emphasise, the Somerset element in his story.

Not long before the novelist’s death, a gentleman wrote to him from Taunton, calling attention to the widely prevalent idea that in the course of the tale he conveyed the impression of allocating this charming country to North Devon rather than West Somerset; and Mr Blackmore’s correspondent went on to mention that recently strenuous efforts had been made to procure the inclusion of Exmoor in Devon, but that the policy of plunder had been defeated by the vigilant action of the Somerset County Council. In reply to this communication the following letter was received:—

“My dear Sir,—Nowhere, to the best of my remembrance, have I said, or even implied, that Exmoor lies mainly in Devonshire. Having known that country from my boyhood—for my grandfather was the incumbent of Oare as well as of Combe Martin—I have always borne in mind the truth that by far the larger part of the moor is within the county of Somerset, and the very first sentence in Lorna Doone shows that John Ridd lived in the latter county. Moreover, when application is made to Devon J.P.’s for a warrant against the Doones, does not one of them say that the crime was committed in Somerset, and therefore he cannot deal with it? See also p. 179 (6d. edition), which seems to me clear enough for anything. Moreover, the rivalry of the militia, both in Lorna Doone and Slain by the Doones—which title I dislike, and did not choose freely—shows that the Doone Valley was upon the county border. I think also that Cosgate, supposed to be ‘County’s Gate,’ is referred to in Lorna Doone, but I cannot stop to look.[1] The Warren where the Squire lived is on the westward of the line, as Lynmouth is—or, at least, I think so—and therefore North Devon is spoken of the heroine who lives there. All this being so very clear to me, I have been surprised more than once at finding myself accused in Somerset papers of describing Exmoor as mainly a district of Devonshire—a thing which I never did, even in haste of thought. And if you should hear such a charge repeated, I trust that your courtesy will induce you to contradict it, which I have never done publicly, as I thought the refutation was self-evident.”

It is certainly true that at Dulverton, which, if not Exmoor, is next door to it, visitors frequently imagine that they are in Devonshire, as I have myself proved, but, for my own part, I have never attributed this delusion to the influence of Lorna Doone. On the contrary, it has seemed to me that a river is the culprit. The Exe is universally esteemed a Devon stream, and lends its name to the metropolis of the West. That in these circumstances Exmoor should be anywhere but in Devonshire, may well appear a violation of the fitness of things, and as coloured maps seldom perhaps emerge from their impedimenta, these visitors revenge themselves on the makers of England by substituting for artificial delimitations their own easy beliefs and natural assumptions.

This, however, is somewhat of a digression. I return to the probably more interesting topic of Mr Blackmore’s Devonshire “havage,” which good old West-country term I once heard a good old West-country clergyman derive from the Latin avus—needless to say, a most unlikely etymon. In the above-quoted letter reference is made to the novelist’s grandfather as incumbent of Oare and Combe Martin, but, had the occasion required it, Blackmore could no doubt have furnished a much fuller account of his North Devon pedigree. It is extremely probable, but not absolutely certain, that one of his remote ancestors, sharing the same Christian name Richard, married a Wichehalse of Lynton. To have read Lorna Doone is to remember how John Ridd rudely disturbed young Squire Wichehalse in the act of kissing his sister Annie; and I shall have more to say of this half-foreign clan, their fortunes, and their eyry in a subsequent chapter. Meanwhile one may note that the first entry in the parish register of Parracombe relates to the marriage of Richard Blackmore and Margaret, daughter of Hugh Wichehalse, of Ley, Esq.; and, further, that the bride’s father died on Christide, 1653, and the bride herself thirty years later. These dates are important, as they seem to preclude the possibility of the Richard Blackmore who wedded the Lady of Ley being the direct progenitor of the Richard Blackmore who wrote Lorna Doone, though it can scarcely be questioned that he was of the same kith and kin, and so, in the larger sense, an ancestor. In any case, the match cannot be accepted as a criterion of the standing of the family. Mésalliances are not unknown in North Devon, one such romantic union of erstwhile celebrity being the marriage of a small farmer’s son with a daughter of the resident rector, a gentleman of good descent and prebendary of Exeter Cathedral. From the time of John Ridd, and who shall say for how many ages antecedent thereto, love has laughed at locksmiths and gone its own wilful way.

Small farmers, however, the Blackmores were not. They were freeholders settled at East Bodley and Barton in the parish of Parracombe, and leaseholders of the neighbouring farm of Killington, or Kinwelton, in the parish of Martinhoe. Over the porch of the old farmstead at Parracombe may still be read the inscription, “R.B., J.B., 1638”; and as the Subsidy Rolls of 16 Charles I. for Parracombe and Martinhoe contain the names of Richard and John Blackmore, we may conjecture without difficulty to whom the initials belonged. The first of the yeomen on whom we can fasten as a certain ancestor of the novelist was a John Blackmore who died in 1689. His son Richard, and grandson John, and great-grandson John—not to mention other members of the family whose names are duly recorded—suffered themselves to be absorbed with the peaceful and healthful pursuit of husbandry, which they practised, generation after generation, on their estate at Bodley. Then, towards the end of the eighteenth century there occurred a change; and the Blackmore name, in the person of another John, took what may be termed an upward turn. This John Blackmore, born in 1764, betrayed a taste for learning, and through Tiverton School found his way to Exeter College, Oxford, where he won the degree of B.A. He was soon after ordained, and entered on his duties as curate of High Bray, on the outskirts of Exmoor, and in his own country and county. An antiquary and a person of general cultivation, he was at the pains of copying the parish register, and in the new edition did what every parson should do, set down items of current interest, together with an informal history of the parish, so far as it could be learned. He did also what few parsons should attempt—adorned his copy of the register with original Latin verses. Such specimens of new Latin poetry as I have disinterred from parochial records are, for the most part, fearful and wonderful lucubrations as to both sentiment and technique, whereas it is frequently the case that voluntary jottings in the vulgar tongue gild and redeem, with their human touches, whole continents of inky wilderness.

Not long after his advent at High Bray Mr Blackmore appears to have married, and in process of time his wife bore him a first-born son, whom he named John. He was, however, not quite content with his position as curate; and accordingly he bought the advowson of the adjacent living of Charles, in the confident expectation that it would shortly become void, pending which happy consummation he agreed to serve as curate-in-charge. No speculation could have been more disastrous, since, in point of fact, the hoped-for vacancy did not occur till quite half a century had passed over his head, and at that advanced age he did not think proper to enter upon possession. Instead of doing so, he presented his second son Richard to the rectory. During this protracted era of suspense John Blackmore, senior, as he must now be designated, did not lack preferment. In 1809 he was appointed rector of Oare, and in 1833 (pluralities being still admissible) he received in addition the valuable living of Combe Martin; and both these appointments he continued to hold till his death in 1842.

As has been intimated, the original Parson Blackmore had two sons, John and Richard, each of whom, following in his footsteps, entered the Church; and the elder at all events met with considerably worse luck than his father. Curiously enough, his early life was full of promise, for in 1816 he was elected Fellow of Exeter, his father’s old college, and this might well have proved the inception of a long and successful academic career, either in Oxford or at one of our public schools. But in 1822 he vacated his fellowship on his marriage with Anne Basset, daughter of the Rev. J. Knight, of Newton Nottage. Thirteen years later he had attained to no higher position than that of curate-in-charge of Culmstock, near Tiverton; and when he retired from that, it was only to proceed in a similar capacity to Ashford, near Barnstaple. He was always poor, but deserved a happier fate, since he was always good (see Maid of Sker, chapter xxxix.). He died in 1858.