as 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.

[Illustration: xii.jpg Tailpiece]

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 luxur