Legend Land, Volume 2 | Page 3

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