Home page Home Scenes and Heart Memories
published by John Blackman in 1864		 Blackman page
Photos This was the second book published by John Blackman.
It contains 90 pages of his poems.
The foreword has 10 pages about the life of the author.
This is a transcript of the foreword (pages vii to xvi). 		Family tree
Several friends, whose opinions I respect, have thought it desirable that I should preface my rustic effusions with some particulars of a personal nature. I claim the readers indulgence therefore, while I proceed as modestly as possible to the task. My native place, Chobham, is a large agricultural parish in Surrey, bordering on Bagshot Heath, once so renowned for its taverns, turf, and highwaymen. In the reign of Edward III when the scattered inhabitants, little better than serfs, dwelt in miserable clay hovels upon the rude waste, Chobham was under the surveillance of John Rutherwick, the Abbot of Chertsey – perhaps the merriest and most popular of all the ChertseyAbbots, a man fond of killing game and hunting the “wild deer”. He imposed a tax upon his Surrey neighbours which he styled “mead silver” being a silver penny per acre upon all the grass land in the numerous parishes under his spiritual rule. He also enclosed a pond of sixty acres upon the common, and plentifully stocked it with fish, which afforded other sport to the Abbot and Monks of Chertsey, who graciously fished in the pond and gave it the name of “Gracious Pond” a name which the rushy hollow still retains. Hard by was a mansion, now a solitary farm house, supposed to be of Roman origin, with a park of five hundred acres, which was successively occupied by several Catholic families. This moated house, with its antique curiosities, fell into the hands of Queen Mary, who sold it for the sum of 3,000 pounds to Nicholas Heath, the scholarly archbishop of York, to whom Mary was greatly attached on account of his sturdy adherence to the Church of Rome. Heath died at the park-house in 1579, and was buried in the chancel of the village church.

Since the period of the great military encampment upon its extensive common of ten thousand acres, in the summer of 1853, Chobham has become a thriving village and has undergone many interesting local improvements. The house, or “homestead” where I was born in the month of July 1819, stands in the corner of a shady lane, about half a mile from the village, and is still known by its original appellation, “Fowler’s Wells”. It would appear that this house, where my father, a small tenant farmer, lived for more than fifty years, was build by a branch of the Fowler family, who resided in Esher and in other parts of Surrey, two centuries ago.

My mother, for one in her station, was a remarkably active and thoughtful women, and to her example and teachings I owe more than I can adequately express. My earliest recollections are associated with a dame’s school, where I learned to make light and heavy strokes and to spell mono-syllables. I soon outgrew the limits of the dame’s knowledge and was removed to the national school in the village, where I made some progress in such elementary education as the school afforded, but where I had not the opportunity of acquiring rudiments which, together form the basis of a respectable education. My schoolmaster knew comparatively little either of grammar or arithmetic, but he did what he could, he taught me to write a fair hand and to read with tolerable fluency. My father, a kindly disposed man, never had a day’s schooling in his life – he could not write his own name – yet he was not singular in this respect; scarcely one in ten of the neighbouring farmers could do more, and even now, with all the advantages of the time, a lamentable amount of ignorance and superstition prevails among the rural population of West Surrey.

The favourable reports which my village tutor frequently gave of my mental progress induced my father to take me from school earlier than he otherwise would have done “for fear” as he said, “you will learn too much”. This dread of knowledge was then very common among country people, who generally held the erroneous notion that education unfits a person for the due performance of the plain duties of life. At the age of nine, therefore, my school days ended, and I was marched into the fields to render my feeble assistance in the way of farmwork.

The next five or six years were almost entirely devoted to the lesser labours of the farm, among horses, cows, and the genial influences of the seasons. Still the work of education was going on under budding hedgerows and leafy trees, apart from those depressing evils which the poor of our rural district usually suffer and usually bear with uncomplaining patience. Poets and painters have been wont to picture the peasant’s home only in its outer and material aspects; they have shown us the roses but not the thorns; they have surrounded the cottage with the loveliest blossoms of summer, wreathed the lattice and doorway with flowers, but have rarely depicted the scanty meal and the poverty of the mind and life. Some poets, however, such as Burns, Clare, and Capern, who have toiled and suffered among the various sections of our peasantry, have given touching and truthful voices to their aspirations and their wrongs.

My Ploughboy years, as will be imagined from my versified impressions of that period, were extremely sunny and cheerful. Every form of animate and inanimate nature around me, seemed to hold living and mysterious converse with my thoughts. I saw and felt, and wondered, yea even worshipped in the serene presence of wealthy landscapes and glowing skies, but could not express in poetic language the silent raptures and chaste emotions which they awakened in my soul. Those years were otherwise happy in the peaceful enjoyment of advantages which spring from a well-regulated family, where the utmost order prevails, where everything has its appointed place, and every duty is performed at its proper time. In summer I was up with the rising of the lark often before sunrise, and in winter before the dawn. My early walks through varied scenery to “call the cattle home” and the meads - Where a little footway bridge Spans a silver stream.
While the morning star was yet visible, the faint blush of daybreak over the hills, the flutter and music of thrushes among dewy leaves, patches of nestling primroses, the white mist about trees and streams, and the sparling gossamer network, spread from twig to twig by the fairy fingers of Nature were, to my mind, objects of unsullied enjoyment, and then, with what a keen relish I ate my breakfast, such a one as my countryman William Cobbett loved, consisting of home-made bread, bacon, and a mess of warm new milk in a brown basin of real Hampshire ware.

I was considered a good reader, and was often engaged in reading aloud to the family circle. This twilight exercise was performed by the light of that specie of wild rush from marshy parts of the common which Gilbert White so graphically described in his universally known book, the “Natural History of Selborne”. Our library was limited to a few books, chiefly of a religious character, such as the Family Bible, two or three volumes of sermons, Nelson’s “Fasts and Festivals”, and a well-thumbed volume of Family Prayers, A newspaper was seldom seen, but we had Rapin’s “History of England”, and the works of Milton and Pope. A kind-hearted lady of the village also took a lively interest in my welfare, and gave me Richmond’s “Annals of the Poor” and other books of a kindred nature. Which furnished me with much pleasant reading on winter evenings. She further encouraged me with many kind words and much good counsel, which I trust have had a salutary influence on my subsequent career. The husband of this lady, the Rev. Charles Jerram, was vicar of Chobham for thirty years. He was a fine classical scholar, an author of considerable reputation, and a tutor of remarkable ability. The late Patrick Fraser Tytler, the historian of Scotland, and several eminent divines of the English church were among his pupils. His excellent wife died in November last (1864) in her 91st year, mourned by the whole parish, and especially by those who had been recipients of her gentle ministrations and unobtrusive Christian charities,

Another lady, who passed a summer in the village, gave me a copy of Day’s “Sandford and Merton”, a book that opened to me a new world of intellectual pleasure, and which proved doubly interesting when I was made aware of the fact that this genuine boy’s book was actually written at Anningsley-park, within three miles of my birthplace, and that its author had often visited “Fowler’s Wells” and walked in the beautiful gardens by which it was partly surrounded. I was naturally desirous of seeing Day’s home, which, lying in a woody hollow on the eastern confines of the parish, and some distance from the public road, was entirely hidden from my view. I endeavoured to gratify my curiosity by climbing a tree, one probably which Day himself had planted, and thus I obtained a sight of one of the chimneys. Through the kindness of the Hon, Mrs James Nerton, who owns the estate, I have since had the opportunity of visiting Anningsley, I have also had the privilege of writing a memoir of this remarkable man.

In November, 1833, my mother died, and this event clouded my prospects, scattered the simple of home- happiness and completely changed the current of my life. Agricultural life, too, at this time, was comparatively dead, a dense cloud hung alike over the farm and the cottage. It was the period of the passing of the Reform Bill, a time of deep depression in farming districts, and which affected all classes of the community. Small farms were annexed to larger ones, the land was monopolized by wealthy land-owners, workhouses were filled by pauper-peasants, and struggling tenant-farmers, impoverished by the low prices of corn, borne down by excessive taxation and high rents, were driven out of their farms, and those who could not emigrate to America or Australia, were reduced to the condition of labourers. In consequence of these unhappy changes, farms generally were half-stocked and half-cultivated, while wretchedness and sullen discontent prevailed to a serious extent among the peasantry, and, in many districts, led to rioting and a wanton destruction of property.

The Reform Bill raised the hopes and enthusiasm of the people, and promised more than it has even yet accomplished. The measure was hailed throughout the provinces as the certain dawn of a brighter future for the labouring population of this country : open-air dinners, long speeches, music and festive rejoicings marked the seeming triumph, and left the poor man and the intelligent artisan in the same state of political degradation as that in which they had previously existed.

In 1834 I finally left the farm, and went to Richmond, Surrey, and lived some time in the unpromising capacity of a doctor’s boy, opposite the house in Ormond Row, where Mrs Hotland then resided and wrote some of her best books. This change, however, was not in harmony either with my taste of feelings, and I soon passed from the polished glade of Richmond, the consecrated haunts of Thomson and Collins, to the healthy village of Wimbledon, where I spent the succeeding five years in the monotonous drudgery of a chandler’s shop. About this time I became acquainted with two young men of kindred taste.
One, a Scotchman, full of the poetry of Burns, drew my attention to such authors as Bacon, Milton and Locke; the other, a native of Sherwood Forest, was overflowing with anecdotes of Nottingham, especially of Byron, with whose works and walks about Newstead, he seemed equally familiar. The scanty leisure which now fell to my lot was almost entirely devoted to the acquisition of knowledge. I read novels, history, travels, and nearly all the English poets from Pope to Tennyson, but the books which subsequently came under my notice, and which books, by their intrinsic charms exercised an abiding influence over me, were Miss Mitford’s “Our Village,” Washington Irving’s “Sketch Book,” and William Howitt’s works, particularly his “Rural Life of England.” My first feeble attempt at poetical composition was made while living at Wallingford, and to my surprise and gratification, my verses to “Spring” appeared in the “Reading Mercury.” Still I plodded on in the provision trade, without any serious thoughts of authorship, nor have I since regarded writing in any other light than as a source of recreation and improvement.

Twenty years, the prime portion of my life, have been passed behind the counter and in the warehouse, toiling often for the “bread that perisheth,” especially in London, sixteen hours out of twenty-four. Although my opportunities for culture and advancement have been few and meagre, and my unfriended pathway frequently beset by common ills and common difficulties, I have managed to write occasional verses, essays, biographies and newspaper articles of sufficient merit for editorial acceptance. Among those who favoured my earlier efforts were the late John Cassell, whose name will henceforth rank with the honourable name of Charles Knight, and those of the Messrs. Chambers, in connection with cheap literature, education and popular progress. A very pleasing interview a few years ago with Sir John Bowring, also proved of essential service to me. This eminent linguist and traveller was exceedingly kind, pointed out several defects in some papers which I submitted to him, and gave me some excellent advice for my future guidance.

My last seven years, physically considered, have been spent in easier circumstances, consequently I have found time for the delivery of various lectures at public institutions, and the composition of several volumes of prose which have not yet passed through the printer’s hands. The verses which form this unpretending volume have been gathered from the publications in which they first appeared, several have been translated into the French language, others are new. I am not vain enough to suppose that my verses contain any striking excellencies, they are simply what they profess to be, a succession of rustic scenes and images, garnished with a few homely thoughts and an occasional wild-flower from the green lanes of Surrey.