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.