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:—

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.

By his wife Anne the Rev. John Blackmore had one daughter and two sons, Henry John, who afterwards took the name of Turberville, and Richard Doddridge. The former produced a bizarre poem entitled “The Two Colonels,” and was proficient in a number of sciences, notably in astronomy, but he was eccentric to such a degree that there was grave doubt, in spite of all his attainments, whether he was quite compos mentis. He resided at Bradiford, near Barnstaple, died at Yeovil under distressing circumstances, and was buried at Charles (in 1875). He assumed the name Turberville, so it is said, out of resentment at the sale of the family estates for the benefit of a half-brother, Frederick Platt Blackmore, an officer in the army and a spendthrift; and he notified his intention, as well as his reason, to all whom it might concern in a printed handbill. Anger was also the motive for his writing “The Two Colonels”; he conceived there had been discourtesy on the part of the members of the Ilfracombe Highway Board and others. The publication caused much excitement, and at one time an action for libel seemed imminent. Eventually, it is believed, the book was withdrawn.

Besides the son already mentioned, the Rev. John Blackmore had by his second wife two daughters, Charlotte Ellen, who married the Rev. J. P. Faunthorpe, of Whitelands College, Chelsea, and Jane Elizabeth, who was the wife of the Rev. Samuel Davis, for many years vicar of Barrington, Devon. He was for a year or two at Bude Haven, and won some reputation there as a preacher. Hence, his son, Mr A. H. Davis, thought he might possibly be the “Bude Light” of Tales from the Telling House, but my friend, the late Rev. D. M. Owen, who probably knew, gave me to understand that the “Bude Light” was the Rev. Goldsworthy Gurney.

Returning to the first family—the second son was Richard Doddridge Blackmore, the novelist. In his case, although great wit is proverbially allied to madness, the question of sanity is not likely to be raised; and probably the worst fault that the world will lay to his charge is that of undue secretiveness. It is common knowledge that he interdicted anything in the shape of a biography, and doubtless he took measures to prevent the survival of private papers and letters which might be used as material for the purpose. Whether or not he did this, his wish will assuredly be held sacred by his more intimate friends, who alone are qualified to undertake such a work. Meanwhile the novelist has to pay for his prohibition of an authentic Life, by the unrestricted play of ben trovare. Having myself been victimised by this insidious enemy of truth, I seize the opportunity to protest that any statements regarding the late Mr Blackmore to be found in the present work are made without prejudice and with all reserve, as being, conceivably, the inventions of the Father of Lies. At the same time, as due caution has been observed and the evidence has, in various instances, been drawn from reputable and independent witnesses who, without knowing it, acted as a check on each other, I cannot seriously believe that these contributions to history are either gratuitous or garbled.

An illustration, pointed and germane, is not far to seek. I always understood from my late kind friend, the Rev. C. St Barbe, Sydenham, rector of Brushford, who, to the deep regret of a wide circle of acquaintance, passed away in the spring of 1904 at the age of 81, that R. D. Blackmore, as a boy, spent many of his vacations at the moorland village of Charles, to the rectory of which his uncle Richard had, as we have seen, been presented by his grandfather. Mr Sydenham even went so far as to use the expression “brought up” in this connection, which indicates at least the length and frequency of young Blackmore’s visits. Now the Rev. J. F. Chanter, in a paper written in 1903, shows that he also has gained a knowledge of the circumstance—certainly by some other means. As the rector of Charles did not die till 1880, and so lived to see his nephew and guest grown famous, it is not to be supposed that he allowed his share in the hero’s tirocinium to remain obscure. What more natural than that he should communicate it freely to his neighbours, with all the pride of a fond uncle with no children of his own? Would he not have related also, as the harvest of imparted wisdom, that in the rectory parlour, the scene of former instruction, great part of Lorna Doone was written? Nor must we forget the old Blackmore property at Bodley, where the novelist’s grandfather, in order to adapt it to his requirements as an occasional residence, had added to the venerable homestead a new wing; and where, or at Oare rectory, the future romancer passed blissful holidays, roaming at will in the North Devon fields and lanes, and drinking in quaint lore, conveyed in the broad, kindly accents of the North Devon country-folk. The Bodley estates, consisting of East Bodley, West Hill, and Burnsley Mill, passed to the novelist’s father, by whom they were sold a few years before his death. Mr Arthur Smyth, referring to R. D. Blackmore’s college days, avers that even then he was very reserved. Mr Smyth’s father often went shooting with him. About this time a white hare was caught at Bodley, and, having been stuffed, was treasured by the Rev. R. Blackmore in his dining-room at Charles.

Thus the limits of the Blackmore country are definitely staked out by family tradition, as well as by literary interest, running from Culmstock to Ashford, and from Oare to Combe Martin, with the commons appurtenant. The confines are somewhat vague and irregular, and I must crave some indulgence for my method of configuration. Obviously, the novelist’s recollections of his youth with their accompanying sentiments and inspirations, cannot be taken as an absolute guide, for then it would be requisite to cross the Bristol Channel to Newton Nottage, his mother’s home, in the vicinity of which are laid the opening scenes of the charming Maid of Sker. Such a course would infringe too much on the popular conception of the phrase, and the attempt to link localities without any natural connection, and severed by an arm of the sea, however successfully accomplished in the romance, would in our case involve needless confusion. What little is said about Newton Nottage, therefore, may as well be said here.

A village in Glamorganshire, it had peculiarly sacred and solemn associations for R. D. Blackmore. Nottage Court, the seat of the Knight family, was his mother’s ancestral home, and it was also one of the homes of his own childhood. Here he wrote his first book, the above-named romance, which was ever his favourite, but the story was re-written, and not published till a later date. For Blackmore, however, the place had sad as well as pleasant memories, for it was here that his father, then curate of Ashford, was found dead in his bed on the morning of September 24, 1858, whilst on a visit to his wife’s people, and at Newton Nottage he lies buried.

If this is crossing the Bristol Channel, so be it; we are soon back again, and ready to discourse of Tiverton, and Southmolton, and Lynton, and Barnstaple, and their smaller neighbours, with the moors and commons appurtenant.[2]

PEDIGREE OF THE BLACKMORE FAMILY