The Devil and the Tailor

Once upon a time, in Clitheroe, Lancashire, there lived a poor tailor. He worked diligently, but no matter how hard he tried, he could never escape poverty.

When his situation became truly dire, the poor man decided to sell his soul to the devil. Who could blame him? Like any man, he wanted a little money and joy in this life, and what happened in the next didn’t matter much.

The poor tailor carefully researched what needed to be done. He wrote a letter agreeing to give his soul to the devil in fifteen years and, before going to bed, placed it under his pillow. The next morning, instead of the letter, he found half a crown there. The tailor knew that this half-crown was a deposit, and by taking it, he was agreeing to the deal.

He took the money, and though it wasn’t much, he rejoiced, anticipating better times. Now he wouldn’t go hungry or cold! Soon he would buy everything he wanted, live in a big house, eat to his heart’s content, and even enjoy a little wine!

That’s what the poor tailor thought.

But alas! Time passed, and though the deal was made, he had no luck, no income—nothing he had dreamed of. He remained as unlucky as ever. His scissors dulled, he lost his needle, his fabric frayed, and his customers either haggled or simply forgot to pay him.

In short, everything stayed the same.

“Ah, I shouldn’t have sold my soul to the devil,” the tailor thought with frustration.

But gradually, he began to forget that he had ever written a letter to the devil and taken the deposit to seal the deal.

Then one day, as he sat cross-legged on his low worktable as usual, there was a loud knock at the door, and a very tall, dark-haired stranger entered. The tailor jumped up, rubbing his hands—he thought this was a wealthy customer.

“Would you like a pair of new breeches, sir?” he asked.

“No, it’s not about breeches,” the stranger replied in a deep, hollow voice.

“I have some lovely flowered silk, sir, if you’d like to order a new waistcoat,” the tailor continued.

“No, I didn’t come for a waistcoat,” said the stranger.

Fear began to grip the tailor, and he remembered something:

“There’s also g-g-green cloth… b-b-bottle-colored, your grace… for a coat.”

At this, the stranger lost all patience. He stepped right up to the tailor, grabbed him by the neckerchief, and said:

“Don’t you recognize me? The time has come to pay! I’ve come for you!”

And with those words, the devil—for it was none other than him—dragged the poor man out of the house. The tailor begged for mercy. He told the devil about the miserable life he had led, how everything had gone wrong, and how he had seen no joy from the deal all these long years.

“Ah, your majesty, won’t you grant me just one wish before the end?” cried the poor tailor as they reached the doorstep. “Just one wish!”

Well, the devil knew deep down that he hadn’t been entirely fair, and when the tailor repeated his plea, he finally relented.

“Fine, one wish,” he grumbled, “but make it quick!”

Caught off guard, the tailor looked around, unsure what to wish for. His final hour had come. What should he ask for?

But the only thing that caught his eye was an old gray mare, speckled with spots, grazing in the meadow in front of the house. He looked up at the ominous stranger and suddenly blurted out:

“I wish for you to jump on that gray mare and ride off, never to frighten poor people again!”

No sooner had the tailor spoken than the devil let out a wild cry, released his grip on the neckerchief, and in an instant was seated on the gray horse, which galloped away down the road.

And most importantly—no one ever saw the devil again, at least not in Lancashire.

But that’s not the end of the story. As you might guess, word of this incident soon spread far and wide. Curious people from all over the country began flocking to Clitheroe to see the man who had outwitted the devil himself and hear the story from his own lips.

Soon, the tailor had more customers than he could handle. He began to live richly and happily. For his new workshop, he commissioned a sign depicting the entire story—in broad strokes, of course. And if you ever visit Clitheroe, you might just see it there.

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The Devil and the Tailor

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