Legend Land, Volume 2
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Various >> Legend Land, Volume 2
[Illustration:
G.W.R: The Line to Legend Land.
THE ABBOT'S WAY Page 24
TAVISTOCK Page 20
BRENT TOR Page 4
BUCKLAND ABBEY Page 16
DEAN COMBE Page 12
THE PARSON AND THE CLERK Page 8
Vol. Two Front End]
* * * * *
LEGEND LAND
Being a collection of some of the _OLD TALES_ told
in those Western Parts of Britain served by the
_GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY_, now retold by _LYONESSE_
[Illustration]
VOLUME TWO
_Published in 1922 by_
THE GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY
[FELIX J. C. POLE, GENERAL MANAGER]
PADDINGTON STATION, LONDON
CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS
The Church the Devil Stole _Page_ 4
The Parson and the Clerk 8
The Weaver of Dean Combe 12
The Demon Who Helped Drake 16
The Samson of Tavistock 20
The Midnight Hunter of the Moor 24
The Lost Land of Lyonesse 28
The Piskie's Funeral 32
The Spectre Coach 36
St. Neot, the Pigmy Saint 40
The Old Man of Cury 44
The Hooting Carn 48
The Padstow May Day Songs (_Supplement_) 52
* * * * *
This is a reprint in book form of the second series of
_The Line to Legend Land_ leaflets, together with a
Supplement, "The Padstow May Day Songs."
The Map at the beginning provides a guide to the localities
of the six Devon legends; that at the back to those of
Cornwall.
* * * * *
_Printed by_ SPOTTISWOODE, BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LIMITED,
_One New Street Square, London, E.C.4_
FOREWORD
The western parts of our country are richer in legend than any other
part. Perhaps this is because of the Celtic love of poetry and symbolism
inherent in the blood of the people of the West; perhaps because of
inspiration drawn from the wild hills and bleak moors of the lands in
which they live; perhaps because life is, and always was, quieter there,
and people have more time to remember the tales of other days than in
busier, more prosaic, districts.
Most of the Devon legends cluster around the grim wastes of Dartmoor,
and, like that wonderful stretch of country, are wild and awe-inspiring.
The devil and his wicked works enter largely into them, and there is
reason to believe them to be among the oldest tales known to us.
Possibly they were not new when the hut circles of the Moor were
inhabited and Grimspound was a busy village.
Some of the Cornish stories told in this series, like the story of
Lyonesse and of Parson Dodge and the Spectre Coach, have their beginning
in historical fact; yet into the latter story has been woven a tale that
is centuries older, in origin, than the days of the eccentric priest of
Talland.
But old tales, like old wine, need nothing but themselves to advertise
them. In their time they have entertained--who can say how many hearers
through the ages? And they are still good--read or told--to amuse as
many more.
LYONESSE
[Illustration]
THE CHURCH THE DEVIL STOLE
Most travellers to the West know queer little Brent Tor, that isolated
church-crowned peak that stands up defiantly a mile or two from Lydford,
seeming, as it were, a sentry watching the West for grim Dartmoor that
rises twice its height behind it. Burnt Tor, they say, was the old name
of this peak, because, seen from a distance, the brave little mountain
resembles a flame bursting upwards from the earth. Others--with less
imagination and perhaps more knowledge--would have us believe that Brent
Tor was once a volcano, and that it really did burn in ages long since.
But the old folk of the neighbourhood care less for the name of their
Tor than for the strange story of the church that crowns its summit.
Ever so long ago, they will tell you, the good folk of the lower lands
around the foot of the hill decided to build themselves a church. They
had long needed one; so long that the Devil, who roamed about Dartmoor,
had begun to consider that such an irreligious community was surely
marked down for his own.
That is why, when he came upon the people one day setting to work to
build a church, he was overcome with fury.
But he seems to have thought it all out carefully, and to have decided
to let them go on for a while, and so, week after week, at the foot of
Brent Tor, the little church grew.
At last it was finished, and the good folk were preparing great
festivities for its dedication when, during one dark autumn night, the
church disappeared.
In the greatest distress they bemoaned their sad plight, but they were
quick to attribute the evil action to the Prince of Darkness, and to
show him that they were not to be intimidated they decided to begin at
once to build another church. Throughout the day they made their plans,
and retired to rest that night determined to start on their pious work
next morning.
But when they woke in the morning they saw with amazement their own
church perched high on the hill above them. The Devil had stolen it, and
to mock the villagers had replaced it on the hilltop, where, he thought,
having dominion over the powers of the air, he would be able to defeat
their designs.
The people, however, thought otherwise. They sent in haste for the
nearest bishop, and with him proceeded to the top of Brent Tor. And,
since St. Michael looks after hilltops, to him they dedicated their
church.
Hardly had the service finished when the Devil, passing by, looked in
to jeer, as he thought, at the foolish folk he had deceived. But on the
summit of the Tor he met St. Michael.
The Archangel fell upon the Evil One and tumbled him straightway down
the hill; then, to make sure of his discomfiture, hurled a huge rock
after him. And there at the base of Brent Tor you may see the very rock
to this day.
If you climb to the top of the hill you will get, on a fine day, one of
the most beautiful views in the West. On one side is Dartmoor in all its
rugged glory; on the other, distant, blue and mysterious, the uplands
of the Bodmin moors.
Lydford, from which you can best reach Brent Tor, is famous for its wild
gorge. It stands on the edge of Dartmoor itself, and from it country of
wonderful beauty may easily be reached. All around are hills and
heather-carpeted moorland; yet a short railway journey will take you
from this far-away village to busy Plymouth, Okehampton, or Launceston,
the border town of Cornwall.
Here, where winds sweep from any direction across great wastes of moor,
or from the sea, health and quiet are to be found more easily than in
any popular holiday resort or fashionable spa.
[Illustration: _Brent Tor Church_]
[Illustration]
THE PARSON AND THE CLERK
All real old stories of long ago should begin with "Once upon a time,"
and so, once upon a time there was a Bishop of Exeter who lay very ill
at Dawlish, on the South Devon coast, and among those who visited him
frequently was the parson of an inland parish who was ambitious enough
to hope that, should the good bishop die, he would be chosen to fill his
place.
This parson was a man of violent temper, and his continued visits to
the sick man did not improve this, for his journey was a long and dreary
one, and the bishop, he thought, took an unconscionable time in dying.
But he had to maintain his reputation for piety, and so it happened that
on a winter night he was riding towards Dawlish through the rain,
guided, as was his custom, by his parish clerk.
That particular night the clerk had lost his way, and, long after he and
his master should have been in comfortable quarters at Dawlish, they
were wandering about on the high rough ground of Haldon, some distance
from the village. At last, in anger, the parson turned upon his clerk
and rebuked him violently. "You are useless," he said; "I would rather
have the devil for a guide than you." The clerk mumbled some excuse, and
presently the two came upon a peasant, mounted upon a moor pony, to whom
they explained their plight.
The stranger at once offered to guide them, and very soon all three had
reached the outskirts of the little coast town. Both parson and clerk
were wet through, and when their guide, stopping by an old, tumble-down
house, invited them to enter and take some refreshment, both eagerly
agreed. They entered the house and found there a large company of
wild-looking men engaged in drinking from heavy black-jacks, and singing
loud choruses. The parson and his servant made their way to a quiet
corner and enjoyed a good meal, then, feeling better, agreed to stay for
a while and join their boisterous companions.
But they stayed for a very long while. The drink flowed freely and both
grew uproarious, the parson singing songs with the best of the company
and shouting the choruses louder than any. In this manner they spent the
whole night, and it was not until dawn broke that the priest suggested
moving onward. So none too soberly he called for the horses.
At this moment the news arrived that the bishop was dead. This excited
the parson, who wished at once to get to work to further his ambitious
designs, so he pushed the clerk into the saddle and hastily mounted
himself. But the horses would not move. The parson, in a passion, cried,
"I believe the devil is in the horses!"
"I believe he is," said the clerk thickly, and with that a roar of
unearthly laughter broke out all around them. Then the now terrified men
observed that their boisterous friends were dancing about in glee and
each had turned into a leering demon. The house in which they had passed
the night had completely disappeared, and the road in which they stood
was transformed into the sea-shore, upon which huge waves were breaking,
some already submerging the clerk.
With a wild cry of terror the parson lashed once more at his horse,
but without avail. He felt himself growing stiff and dizzy--and then
consciousness passed from him.
Neither he nor his clerk ever returned to their parish, but that morning
the people of Dawlish saw two strange red rocks standing off the cliffs,
and later, learning this story, they realised that the demons had changed
the evil priest and his man into these forms.
Time and weather have wrought many changes in the Parson and Clerk
Rocks, not the least curious being to carve upon the Parson Rock the
semblance of the two revellers. From certain positions you may see
to-day the profiles of both men, the parson as it were in his pulpit,
and the clerk at his desk beneath him.
The red cliffs around Dawlish make the place peculiarly attractive at
first sight, and the attraction is not lessened by familiarity with the
town. It enjoys the best of the famous South Devon climate; warm in
winter and ever cooled by the sea breeze in summer, it is an excellent
holiday centre. Historic Exeter is close at hand and Dartmoor within
afternoon excursion distance.
[Illustration: "_The Parson and the Clerk_"]
[Illustration]
THE WEAVER OF DEAN COMBE
About a mile outside Buckfastleigh, on the edge of Dartmoor, a little
stream, the Dean Burn, comes tumbling down from the hills through a
narrow valley of peculiar beauty. A short distance up this valley a
waterfall drops into a deep hollow known as the "Hound's Pool." How this
name arose is an old story.
According to the legend, hundreds of years ago, there was living in the
neighbouring hamlet of Dean Combe a wealthy weaver named Knowles. He was
famous throughout those parts of Devon for his skill and industry. But
in due course he died and was buried.
On the day after the funeral, hearing a strange noise, Knowles' son ran
to his father's work-room, where, to his alarm, he saw the dead man
seated at his loom working away just as he had done day after day, year
after year, in life. In terror the young man fled from the house, and
sought the parson of Dean Prior.
The good priest was at first sceptical, but he returned with the
frightened man to the house. As soon as the two had entered the door the
parson's doubts vanished, for sure enough, from an upper chamber, came
the familiar, unmistakable sound of the loom at work.
So the parson went to the foot of the staircase and shouted to the
ghostly weaver: "Knowles, come down! This is no place for thee."
"In a minute, parson," came the reply; "just wait till I've worked out
this shuttle."
"No," said the parson, "come thee at once; thou hast worked long enough
on this earth."
So the spirit came down, and the parson led it outside the house. Then
taking a handful of earth, which he had previously secured from the
churchyard, he flung it into the ghost's face, and instantly the weaver
turned into a black hound.
"Now, follow me," the parson commanded; the grim dog obediently came
to heel. The pair then proceeded into the woods, which, so they say, as
soon as the two entered, were shaken by a violent whirlwind. But at last
the priest led his charge to the edge of the pool below the waterfall,
then producing a walnut-shell with a hole in it, handed it to the hound
and addressed it.
"Knowles," he began, "this shows me plainly that in life thou tookest
more heed of worldly gain than of immortality, and thou didst bargain
with the powers of evil. There is but one hope of rest for thee. When
thou shalt have dipped out this pool with the shell I have given thee,
thou shalt find peace, but not before. Go, work out thy salvation."
With a mournful howl that was heard as far as Widdicombe in the Moor,
the hound leapt into the pool to begin its hopeless labour, and there,
exactly at midnight or midday, they say, you may still see it at its
task.
Buckfastleigh is on a branch line that runs up from Totnes, skirting
Dartmoor, to Ashburton. All around is some of the most glorious scenery
in Devon. Buckfast Abbey, founded in 1148 and for centuries a ruin, was
purchased by French Benedictines in 1882, and is now a live and busy
monastery once again.
Just beyond Dean Combe is Dean Prior, a place of the greatest literary
interest, for it was the home of the poet Herrick for many years.
The country all about abounds in objects of beauty and interest, yet is
all too often neglected by the holiday-maker at the neighbouring seaside
towns a few miles away, or the scurrying motorist speeding down along
the Plymouth road.
[Illustration: _Buckfast Abbey_]
[Illustration]
THE DEMON WHO HELPED DRAKE
All the demons of whom the old folks tell in the West Country were not
evil spirits. Some, like that one who helped Sir Francis Drake, worked
good magic for the benefit of those to whom they attached themselves.
To Drake's demon a number of good deeds are attributed. One story they
tell of him is of those days when the news of the fitting out of the
mighty Spanish Armada had caused a thrill of apprehension to sweep
through the country. The danger that threatened was very great, and
Drake, like all of those who were charged with the safeguarding of our
shores, was vastly worried, although he kept his worries to himself.
And one day, as the story goes, the great admiral was sitting, weighed
down with anxiety, making and remaking his plans, on Devil's Point, a
promontory that runs out into Plymouth Sound. As he was thinking, almost
unconsciously he began whittling a stick. How, he wondered, could he
find enough ships to combat the enormous force the King of Spain was
sending against him?
Looking up from his reverie, at length, across the Sound, he started in
happy surprise, for floating quite close to the shore he saw a number of
well-armed gunboats; each chip that he had cut from the stick having
been so transformed by the magic of his friendly demon.
Later, when Drake had achieved his great victory over the Spaniards,
Queen Elizabeth gave him Buckland Abbey. When he took possession, the
legend goes, there was great need for stables and outhouses, and
building work was set in train at once.
After his first night there, one of Drake's servants was amazed to find
how much building had been done, and, feeling that something unusual
must be going on during the hours of darkness, he secreted himself
in a tree at dusk the next evening to see what happened. There he fell
asleep, but towards midnight he was awakened by the tramp of animals
and the creaking of wheels. Looking down, he saw several ox teams
approaching, each dragging a wagon filled with building materials and
led by a weird spectre form.
As the first team passed by, the spectre, urging the weary beasts on,
plucked from the earth the tree in which the servant was hiding, in
order to beat them. The unfortunate servant was cast to the ground, and,
picking himself up, ran in terror to the house.
His violent fall injured him seriously, and they say that the fright
made him half-witted for the rest of his life. Still, he recovered
sufficiently to tell others of what he had seen, and to explain the
mystery of the miraculous speed with which Buckland Abbey's outbuildings
were constructed.
Buckland Abbey lies between Plymouth and Tavistock, close to the banks
of the pretty River Tavy. Drake built his house there on the site of a
thirteenth-century abbey, some remains of which are still to be found.
Preserved in Buckland Abbey is Drake's Drum, the beating of which in
time of national danger would, so they say, bring the great Elizabethan
sailor back from his ocean grave by the Spanish Main to fight once more
for his country.
Plymouth, the port with which Drake is so closely associated, is a town
brimful of interest, magnificently situated on high ground overlooking
the sea. From famous Plymouth Hoe, the scene of the historic game of
bowls, a view of unequalled charm may be obtained. Out at sea, the
Eddystone Lighthouse is seen, and east and west the rugged shores of the
Sound, always alive with shipping, meet the eye.
And although Plymouth is over 226 miles from London, it is the first
stopping-place of the famous Cornish Riviera Express, which leaves
Paddington each week-morning at 10.30 and arrives at Plymouth only four
hours and seven minutes later.
[Illustration: _Buckland Abbey_]
[Illustration]
THE SAMSON OF TAVISTOCK
In the beautifully situated old town of Tavistock there lived, just over
a thousand years ago, a man of huge stature and great strength named
Ordulph, of whom some strange stories are told. Ordulph was the son
of Orgar, the then Earl of Devon, who was the founder of Tavistock's
wonderful old abbey. Some of Ordulph's huge bones may be seen to-day in
a chest in Tavistock church, to which place they were taken when his
gigantic coffin was discovered beneath the abbey ruins many years ago.
As the old stories go, Ordulph used at times to amuse himself by
standing with one foot on either side of the River Tavy, having
previously ordered his men to organise a great drive of wild beasts from
the Dartmoor forests above the town. The animals he caused to be driven
between his legs, while he, stooping down, would slay them with a small
knife, striking their heads off into the running stream.
On one occasion, they say, he rode to Exeter with King Edward of the
Saxons. When the two with their retinue arrived before the city and
demanded admission, there was some delay in throwing open the gates.
This Ordulph took as an affront to the King, and, leaping from his
enormous black charger, he approached the portcullis and with his hand
tore the ponderous thing from its sockets and broke it into small
pieces.
Then, striding up to the strong iron-bound gates, with a kick he burst
open bolts and bars, and proceeded to lift the gates from their hinges.
After that, with his shoulder he pushed down a considerable portion of
the city walls, then strode across the ruins he had made into the now
terrified city, and bade the alarmed townsfolk to be more careful next
time to receive their King properly, lest worse things should happen to
them.
King Edward, they say, was as much concerned as the citizens of Exeter
about this stupendous exhibition of strength displayed by his companion.
He was fearful at first that so violent a man must be in league with the
devil; but apparently he was satisfied that this was not the case, for
Ordulph lived a very pious life in his latter years, and contributed
large sums to the endowment of the abbey his father had founded.
Tavistock still retains many remains of its once mighty abbey. The town,
situated as it is in a picturesque valley through which the beautiful
Tavy rushes, crystal clear, from the moors, is one of the most
attractive in all Devon. It is the finest centre for exploring the
western part of Dartmoor, for the moorland creeps down to within a short
walking distance of the town itself.
Fine fishing may be had in the neighbouring streams, there is a good
golf course, and the country all around abounds in objects of great
natural beauty and historic interest.
Exeter, the cathedral city which was the scene of Ordulph's Samson-like
feat, is thirty-three miles away by a road that crosses the very heart
of Dartmoor, a wild, beautiful highway that rises in places to well over
1,200 feet; and sixteen-and-a-half miles to the south is Plymouth, from
which Tavistock is easily reached by train.
There are few places in the West Country more attractive than this old
town in the moors, so richly endowed by time and by nature.
[Illustration: _Tavistock Abbey_]
[Illustration]
THE MIDNIGHT HUNTER OF THE MOOR
Running across the southern part of the heart of wild Dartmoor is a
very ancient road. "The Abbot's Way" they call it, and antiquaries hold
varied opinions as to when it was made, and even as to where it led to
and from. To-day, much of this old trackway has gone back to nature and
cannot be distinguished from the rugged moorland across which it passes,
but some stretches of it survive in a strange green path marked here and
there by a boundary stone or a much-weathered Celtic cross.
But the old stories--tales perhaps even older than the road--tell that
the Abbot's Way is the favourite hunting ground of the Wish Hounds or
Yell Hounds, an eerie spectre-pack that hunts across the wildest parts
of the moor on moonless nights.
Strange, gruesome tales are told by those who, benighted or lost in the
fog, have stumbled home through the dark of a winter night across the
grim moorland. They tell--half dazed with fear--as they reach at last
some house and welcome human companionship, of the wild baying of the
hounds that drifted through the murk night to their ears, or of the
sudden vision of the pack passing at whirlwind speed across bog and
marsh urged onward by a grim black figure astride a giant dark horse
from whose smoking nostrils came flame and fire.
The description of this figure, "The Midnight Hunter of the Moor,"
seldom varies, although stories of the Wish Hounds differ from time
to time.
Some say that they are headless, and that their blood-curdling cries
seem to emerge from a phosphorescent glow of evil smoke that hovers
about the place where the head should be. Others describe them as gaunt,
dark beasts with huge white fangs and lolling red tongues.
Up on the grim wild moors it is not hard at midnight, through the
roaring of the wind, or in the stillness of a calm night broken only by
the weird cry of some nocturnal bird or the distant sound of a rushing
stream, to imagine, far away, the baying of this spectre-pack.
The old country folk hold that the man or beast who hears the devilish
music of the Wish Hounds will surely die within the year, and that
any unhappy mortal that stands in the way of the hunt will be pursued
until dawn, and if caught will inevitably lose his soul; for the dark
huntsman, they say, is the devil, whose power is great over that rugged
country between sunset and sunrise.
Even to-day some of the older people will tell you stories of escapes
they have had from the Midnight Hunter, or of the fate that befell some
friend or neighbour very many years ago who never returned from a night
journey across the moor.
But grim as it may be after nightfall, the country which the Abbot's Way
traverses is one of amazing beauty. You may pick up this old track on
the moors a mile or two from Princetown, or strike north to join it from
South Brent or Ivybridge station. To the west there is a stretch of it
clearly marked near Sheepstor where it crosses the head-waters of the
Plym.
Some think the old Way got its name because it was the means of
communication between the Abbeys of Buckfast on one side of the moor and
Tavistock on the other. Others say it was an old wool-trading track to
the west.
Dartmoor all around this district is at its best. It is a riot of rugged
boulder, fern, and heather, through which rushing streams, full of
trout, flow swiftly southward to the Channel. The Tors here are not the
highest of the moor, yet many of them rise well above the 1,500 feet
level.