A great many years ago the vicar of Dawlish and his clerk had been to Teignmouth to collect tithes, and were riding home along the cliffs on a dark wet night when they lost their way.  Suddenly they came to a house that they did not remember having seen before.  The windows were bright and light, and they could hear the shouts and laughter of a very merry company within; they were just wishing themselves inside when a window was thrown open and they were invited to come in, an invitation they very willingly accepted, and they soon began to enjoy themselves, drinking deeply and waxing merrier every moment, the parson singing songs that were quite unfit for a priest, entirely forgetting the sanctity of his calling, while the clerk followed his master’s example.  They stayed long, and when, with giddy heads and unsteady legs, they rose to depart, the parson said he was sure he could not find the way, and he must have a guide, even if it were the devil himself.  The man who had invited them into the house said he would put them on the right way for Dawlish, and led them to the top of the road, and telling them to go straight on, immediately disappeared.  When they had gone a little way, they thought the tide uncommonly high, as it reached their feet, although a minute before they were sure they were on dry land; and the more they attempted to ride away the faster rose the water!  Boisterous laughter now echoed around, and they shouted for help, and a bright flash of lightning revealed the figure of their guide, who was none other than the devil himself, jeering and pointing over the black stormy sea into which they had ridden.  Morning came, and their horses were found quietly straying on the sands, but neither the parson nor his clerk were ever seen again:  but meantime two isolated rocks, in which were seen their images, had risen in the sea as a warning to their brethren of future generations to have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness.

From the Teignmouth side the Parson appeared seated in a pulpit the back of which was attached to the cliff, while under him was an arch just like the entrance to a cave, through which the sea appeared on both sides; while the poor Clerk was some distance farther out at sea and much lower down.  We thought it was a shame that the parson should be sitting up there, watching the poor clerk with the waves dashing over him, as if perfectly helpless to save himself from drowning.  Still, that was the arrangement of the three-decker pulpit so common in the churches of a hundred years ago—­the clerk below, the parson above.

Our road terminated on the beach at Teignmouth, and near St. Michael’s Church, where on a tablet appeared the figure of a ship, and underneath the following words: 

  SACRED TO THE MEMORY

          OF

    RICHARD WESTLAKE,

     AGED 27 YEARS,

  MASTER OF THE BRIG “ISLA,”

    ALSO JOHN WESTLAKE,