Legend Land, Volume 2 | Page 2

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