In 1837 R. D. Blackmore underwent a momentous experience, that being the year in which he entered, a trembling novice, the portals of the famous school, founded by Mr Peter Blundell, clothier. With all its many virtues as a place of learning, Tiverton School long maintained a reputation for roughness, and those days were among its roughest. It might have appeared, therefore, a providential circumstance that the boy had a sturdy sponsor in Frederick Temple, with whom he at first lodged in the simplicity of Copp’s Court, though afterwards he became a boarder inside the gates. Nor can it be doubted that Temple, ever “justissimus unus,” must sometimes have interposed to prevent any unconscionable bullying of his delicate charge. Unfortunately he seems to have taken a severe view of his duties as amateur father; and on one occasion, many years later, when he handed to a prize-winner a copy of Lorna Doone, he mentioned, with a humorous twinkle, that he had often chastised the author by striking him on the head with a brass-headed hammer. We have it on the authority of Mr Stuart J. Reid that Blackmore neither then nor subsequently felt the least gratitude for these attentions, and was wont to refer to his distinguished contemporary in language the reverse of flattering. And what he felt about his schoolfellow, he felt—or Mr Reid is mistaken—about his school, the retrospect of the misery and privations of his boyhood affecting him to his latest hour with a lively sense of horror and reprobation.

One would not have thought it. The opening chapters of Lorna Doone, though candid, seem written with relish of the little barbarians at play, just as if Blackmore had settled with himself that the trials of child’s estate were goodly exercises for the larger palÆstras of life and literature. The filial note is never wanting, and those classic pages, so redolent of the place, and so descriptive of its customs, even to the verge of exaggeration, appeal to the younger generation of “Blundellites” as a splendid and enduring achievement, to which Mr Kipling’s Stalky and Co., and Mr Eden Phillpott’s Human Boy, and even Tom Brown’s Schooldays, must humbly vail.

It would be a considerable satisfaction to report that the scenes which Blackmore pictured are still in all respects as he painted them; but to do so would be to tamper with truth, and lead to unnecessary disappointment. In the first place, the school, as a society of men and boys, was removed in 1882 to a new and more convenient abiding-place about a mile distant, where it has renewed its youth, and flourishes with such a plentitude of numbers as was never known on the traditional site by the bank of the Lowman. The venerable buildings—it moves a nausea to tell—have been remodelled into villas. Apparently there was no remedy, for, although there was talk at the time of acquiring them as a local museum and library, like the Castle at Taunton, nothing came of it all, Tiverton being a small town, and philanthropists few and far between. To be sure, some stipulation was required that the elevation should be preserved in statu quo; but this has been only partially observed. The new residents could not be expected to live in dungeons, and so, for the admission of air and sunshine, the Jacobean windows have been extended and deprived of their pristine proportions. Within, the carved oak ceilings and panels have fled before an invasion of varnished deal, and the whole of the beautiful interior has become a memory.

Would that I could stop here, but stern Clio bids me go on and declare that, a quarter of a century ago, might have been seen over the outer gateway an original brass plate with a curiously inaccurate inscription, recording the circumstances of the foundation in 1604, with a pair of ambitious elegiacs, which not even the most lenient Latinist could with safety to his soul pronounce elegant. This brass is now at Horsdon, in charge of the new school, which has also the mystic white “P.B.” pebbles that adorned the pathway outside the boundary wall. The pathway is another ghost. Not only have the pebbles, both white and black, been uprooted, but sacrilegious hands have been laid on a most sensible and delightful old barricade, formed of heavy posts and heavy angular beams, which ran the whole length of the wall, and was closed at each end with a gate. How Dr Johnson would have loved it!

But the zeal for improvement, which set in during the seventies, is not accountable for all the changes that have marked the spot since Blackmore’s time; and without more explanation, many of the allusions in Lorna Doone must appear mysterious and unintelligible. When Blackmore was at the school, the converging lines of railway, with their passengers and goods stations, and multiplex ramifications, and the adjacent coal-yards and slaughterhouse, were still in the future, and the sites they now occupy were pleasant meadows. At the north-west corner, the point nearest the school, was a “kissing”-gate, whence a footpath, traversing the first meadow, led to another gate of the same amorous description. The main path then struck across to the right and joined the coach route, afterwards called the “old” London road, opposite Zephyr Lodge. Another track pursued an easterly direction to a pretty white timber bridge, which spanned the Lowman with a shallow arch, and near which was the celebrated Taunton Pool. This bridge afforded access to Ham Mills, remembered as a couple of low, white thatched cottages, very picturesque, whither it was the custom of the inhabitants to repair for Sunday junketings.

From the entrance-gate near the school to the corner of the London road ran a quickset hedge, which extended to a point over against a comparatively modern building, which still exists and formerly served as a turnpike, the old London road having been moved further up the hill to make room for the Exe Valley railway bridge. In a similar fashion, the construction of the branch line to the Junction, or “Park” station, as the old people call it, necessitated a great diversion of the Lowman, which previously described a zigzag erratic course, and shot much nearer to the Lodge and London road, so that the little torrent, known to the natives as the Ailsa, and to Blackmore and his boarders as the Taunton brook, joined it almost at right angles.

Blackmore, of course, described the locality as he knew it in his own schooltime. He does not appear to have urged his researches so far back as the assigned age of John Ridd, or he would have eschewed certain anachronisms which, in default of this precaution, have crept into his narrative. They are of no particular consequence, but may be mentioned, as it were, by the way.

To begin with, there were no iron-barred gates for the boys to lean against in 1673, nor for twenty years afterwards. Until 1695, there were only wooden gates, with a small door for entrance, and it may be noticed incidentally, that at the time of their removal they were much decayed. Nor again, in 1673, were there any porter’s lodges. These accessories were first built at the close of the seventeenth century. There being no lodges, the porter was evidently the invention of a later date—1699, apparently. The “old Cop” of the romance, with his sympathetic boots and nose, was the identical functionary of Blackmore’s youth. His name was George Folland, and he succeeded Hezekiah Warren in 1818.

Another chronological error has to do with the Homeric fight between John Ridd and Robin Snell, which the author paraphrases as an “item of importance.” As such I will treat it—to the extent of proving that it can never have taken place. The fleshly existence of the victor has been warrantably challenged, but no such question can arise as to his antagonist. Not that he was called Robin, but the voluntary statement that he became thrice Mayor of Exeter is a plain indication of the person implicated. Now, a visit to the north aisle of the choir of Exeter Cathedral will reveal the presence of three gravestones placed there to the memory of his father, his mother, and himself, with their arms. The inscription which mostly concerns us here is the following:—

“Here, at the Feet of his Father, lyeth the Body of John Snell, Esq., who served this City three times as Mayor, and several times as one of her Representatives in Parliament, served her faithfully and diligently, fearing God and honouring the King. He died ye 26 of Aug. A.D. 1717, Ætat suÆ 78. Here also lyeth Hannah, his virtuous and religious wife.”

The Rev. John Snell, the mayor’s father, was a notable man. Son of the Rev. Arthur Snell, M.A., and born at Lezant, Cornwall, in or about 1610, he was educated at Blundell’s School, Tiverton, and Caius and Gonville College, Cambridge, where he graduated M.A. In February 1634-5, he was instituted to the rectory of Thurlestone, South Devon, from which he was ejected in or about 1646. Reinstated in his living at the Restoration, he was, in 1662, elected Canon Residentiary of Exeter Cathedral. This honourable post he resigned January 4, 1678-9, and died the following April. It may be added, as an almost, if not quite unprecedented circumstance, that he was succeeded in his canonry by two of his sons, Thomas and George; and, as a Rev. John Snell, Vicar of Heavitree, died Canon of Exeter, September 4, 1727, I am by no means certain that a fourth member of the family—probably a grandson of the original John Snell—did not rise to the same office and dignity.

It is natural to inquire whether there can be found any explanation of this prosperity. The answer is partially, yes. As chaplain to the Royalist garrison, the rector of Thurlestone went through the siege of Fort Charles, Salcombe, and in Walker’s Sufferings of the Clergy may be read the story of his persecution by the lying Roundheads, when his first-born son was a boy in jackets.

Many more particulars might be adduced—especially the tradition that “Robin” Snell was killed in a riot—but enough! There remains the question, how came the novelist to know or care aught about this personage. On this point there can be no mistake, as I had it from Mr Blackmore himself that he remembered a schoolfellow named Snell, who must have been either my father or my uncle, the late Mr W. H. Snell, who entered the school on the same day (August 16, 1837) as Blackmore. The latter was uncommonly well posted up in the history of his family, and from him probably the information was derived. There are many Snells in Devonshire. The principal families of that name were long settled in the neighbouring parishes of Chawleigh and Lapford, where they were small landowners, and intermarried with the Kellands and Melhuishes. Curiously, as one may think, in John Ridd’s time Grace Snell, of Lapford, wedded Dr Thomas Bartow, son of Peter Bartow, of Tiverton, and thus became sister-in-law to Philip Blundell, of Collipriest, who was of the kindred of the famous Peter, and a feoffee of the school.

While it is natural to regret, and needful to state the alterations that have taken place in the time-honoured premises and their immediate surroundings, it must not be supposed for a moment that modern vandalism has wiped out every feature of interest. The “Ironing Box,” or triangle of turf, whereon John Ridd fought his great fight with Robin Snell, is still there. So also are the paved causeways and rows of mighty limes (save for sad gaps caused by a recent storm), and the porches and the lodges,—all vestiges of former days of which the present generation of Blundellites are not unmindful. Every seven years do they meet—old boys and new—in the historic Green, thence to perform a pilgrimage on St Peter’s Day to St Peter’s Church, after the example of their ancestors, which pleasant and pious custom neither time nor circumstance will, it is to be hoped, cause to fall into desuetude.

“Blundellites” is À la Blackmore; the more usual, the official, appellation is “Blundellians.” The school magazine is called The Blundellian, and I am indebted to an anonymous letter which appeared in its columns (April 1887), and was indited, no doubt, by my late friend, the Rev. D. M. Owen, for quotations from a private communication, unquestionably the production of R. D. Blackmore himself. The extracts are as follows:—

“I am much obliged for a copy of the Blundellite, which certainly was the ancient and therefore more classical form of the word. My father always called himself a ‘Blundellite,’ and so did my uncles, and I believe my grandfather. All went from Peter to Ex. Coll. (Oxford); however, the juniors have fixed it otherwise and so it must abide.... ‘Blundellian,’ if anything, is the adjectival form, at least according to my theories, though even then ‘Blundelline’ would seem more elegant. ‘ScholÆ BlundellinÆ Alumnus’ is in most of my father’s school-books (in 1810). And I think we find the distinction between the ‘ite’ and the ‘ian’ in good writers, e.g., a ‘Cromwellite,’ but the ‘Cromwellian’ army, a ‘Jacobite,’ a ‘Carmelite,’ etc.... All, I maintain, is that, in my days, we never heard of a ‘Blundellian,’ i.e., in school talk, or from the masters.”

Blackmore’s mention of his grandfather, by which he evidently intends his paternal grandfather, having been at Blundell’s school, is worthy of note. Many years ago the novelist himself acquainted me with the fact, but the curious thing is that the name of John Blackmore, the elder, apparently does not occur in the school register. This has recently been edited by Mr Arthur Fisher, who shows that during certain periods it was ill kept, and there seem to have been frequent omissions. One of the uncles must have been a brother of his mother, and, strange to say, his name also is wanting. The entries referring to other members of the family are:—

Blackmore’s schooldays are now so remote, the survivors so few, that it is hard to recover many details. I have been favoured, however, with communications from two of his contemporaries—Colonel H. Cranstoun Adams and the Rev. E. Pickard-Cambridge; and at this distance of time it is not likely that much more can be gleaned. Colonel Adams writes:—

“He was a very quiet little fellow, and was looked upon as being very clever. He was always ready to help any juniors in their work, and often assisted me. There was really nothing very particular about him, except that he was quieter than the average run of boys. He joined in all the games, and I recollect his having one fight in which he got very much knocked about; but he was extremely plucky about it, and his opponent got a caning for daring to fight a monitor, which Blackmore was at the time.... He was a popular boy, and kind-hearted; but, although he was looked upon as clever, I don’t think any of us thought he would become the author of such a work as Lorna Doone.”

Mr Pickard-Cambridge sends the following:—

“R. D. Blackmore was a day-boy, and I believe remained so; but it is so long since my schooldays that my memory fails me. He was a clever boy at schoolwork. I used to go and stay with him at his father’s vicarage, Culmstock, at the Easter holidays, and when there became acquainted with Temple and his relations. After we left school, I never saw him, but learned his mode of life from public reports.

“He was a small, unhealthy-looking boy, and I could never have dreamt that he would turn out such as I see him in his photograph by Mr Jenkins.

“Now it may be interesting if I tell you what happened one afternoon as I and Blackmore were walking up the Lowman. We came to a gate at the end of a field, and just before we got over it, I saw something sitting on the gate at the opposite end of the field. It was a figure dressed in white clothing, no head appearing, and while I was wondering what it was, it suddenly disappeared to the right of a gate thro’ a hedge.

“I said to Blackmore, ‘Did you see that white figure sitting on the gate?’

“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I could not make out what it was.’

“When we got to the gate, we hunted the hedge and all about by the stream, but could not find or see anything; so we came to the conclusion that it must have been a ghost. When we got back to the school, I believe we told what we had seen; anyhow, we thought no more about it. But about three days afterwards, some people coming by the coach from Halberton saw the same apparition about the same spot, and told of it in the town, and it came to our ears, and then we immediately related what we had seen.

“This was a great confirmation of our story, and there it must end. But I can state that all that I have said was true. I am no great believer in ghosts, but have related the above whenever in conversation ghosts have come to the front.”