Lorna Doone | Page 3

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.
[Illustration: map]

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