About half-a-century ago there lived, in a lane leading away from a
little village near Garstang, a poor idiot named Gregory. He was at
once the sport and the terror of the young folks. Uniformly kind to
them, carefully convoying them to the spots where, in his lonely
rambles, he had noticed birds' nests, or pressing upon them the wild
flowers he had gathered in the neighbouring woods and thickets, he
received at their ungrateful hands all kinds of ill treatment, not
always stopping short of personal violence. In this respect, however,
the thoughtless children only followed the example set them by their
elders, for seldom did poor Gregory pass along the row of cottages,
dignified by the name of street, which constituted the village,
without an unhandsome head being projected from the blacksmith's or
cobbler's shop, or from a doorway, and a cruel taunt being sent after
the idiot, who, in his ragged clothing, with his handful of harebells
and primroses, and a wreath of green leaves round his battered, old
hat, jogged along towards his mother's cottage, singing as he went, in
a pathetic monotone, a snatch of an old Lancashire ballad.
In accordance with that holy law which, under such circumstances,
influences woman's heart, the mother loved this demented lad with
passionate fondness, all the tenderness with which her nature had been
endowed having been called forth by the needs of the afflicted child,
whose only haven of refuge from the harshness of his surroundings and
the cruelty of those who, had not they been as ignorant as the hogs
they fed, would have pitied and protected him, was her breast.
Lavishing all her affection upon the poor lad, she had no kindness to
spare for those who tormented him; and abstaining from any of those
melodramatic and vulgar curses with which a person of less education
would have followed those who abused her child, she studiously held
herself aloof from her neighbours, and avoided meeting them, except
when she was compelled to purchase food or other articles for her
little household. This conduct gave an excuse for much ill
feeling, and as the woman had no need to toil for her daily bread, and
as her cottage was the neatest in the district, there was much
jealousy.
One night, at a jovial gathering, it was arranged that a practical
joke, of what was considered a very humorous kind, should be played
upon the idiot. The boors selected one of their party, whose task it
should be to attire himself in a white sheet, and to emerge into the
lane when the poor lad should make his appearance. In accordance with
this plan the pack of hobbledehoys watched the cottage night after
night, in the hope of seeing the idiot leave the dwelling, and at
length their patience was rewarded. They immediately hid themselves in
the ditch, while the mock ghost concealed himself behind the trunk of
a tree. The lad, not suspecting any evil, came along, humming, in his
melancholy monotone, the usual fragment, and just before he reached
the tree the sheeted figure slowly stepped forth to the accompaniment
of the groanings and bellowings of his associates. They had expected
to see the idiot flee in terror; but instead of so doing, he laughed
loudly at the white figure, and then suddenly, as the expression of
his face changed to one of intense interest, he shouted, 'Oh, oh! a
black one! a black one!' Sure enough, a dark and terrible figure stood
in the middle of the road. The mock ghost fled, with his companions at
his heels, the real spectre chasing them hotly, and the idiot bringing
up the rear, shouting at the top of his voice, 'Run, black devil!
catch white devil!'
They were not long in reaching the village, down the street of which
they ran faster than they ever had run before. Several of them darted
into the smithy, where the blacksmith was scattering the sparks right
and left as he hammered away at the witch-resisting horseshoes, and
others fled into the inn, where they startled the gathered company of
idle gossips; but the mock ghost kept on wildly, looking neither to
the left nor to the right. The idiot had kept close behind the phantom
at the heels of the mock ghost, and when at the end of the village the
spectre vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, the lad ran a little
faster and took its place. Of this, however, the white-sheeted young
fellow was not aware, and, fearing every moment that the shadow would
catch him in its awful embrace, he dashed down a by lane. Before he
got very far, however, the idiot, who had gradually been lessening the
distance between them, overtook and seized him by the neck. With a
terrible cry the rustic fell headlong into the ditch, dragging Gregory
with him as he fell. The latter was soon upon his feet, and dancing
about the lane as he cried, 'Catch white devil! catch white devil!'
The mock ghost, however, lay quiet enough among the nettles.
Roused by the story told by the affrighted ones who had rushed so
unceremoniously into their presence, as well as by the startling cry
of 'Run, black devil! catch white devil!' which the idiot had shouted
as he sped past the door, several of the topers emerged from their
abiding place; and as nothing could be seen of either mock ghost,
spectre, or idiot, they bravely determined to go in search of them. As
they passed along the road from the village, their attention was
attracted by the cries which seemed to come from the lonely lane, and
somewhat nervously making their way along it, they soon saw the idiot
dancing about the side of the ditch. With a sudden access of courage,
due to the presence of anything human, however weak, they hurried
along, and as they drew nearer, the idiot paused in his gambols, and
pointed to the mock ghost, who lay stretched in the shadow of the
hedgerow. He was soon carried away to the village, where he lay ill
for weeks.
The kindness of Gregory's mother to the sick lad's parents, who were
very poor and could ill afford to provide the necessary comforts his
condition required, caused public feeling to turn in her favour, and
those who formerly had been loudest in defaming her became her warmest
eulogists. Between the idiot and the young fellow, too, a strange
friendship sprang up, and the pair might often be seen passing along
the lanes, the idiot chanting his melancholy fragments to the
companion whose cap he had adorned with wreaths of wild flowers.
With such a protector the idiot was quite safe, and, indeed, had the
village children been wishful to torment Gregory, if the presence of
this companion had not sufficed to restrain them, they had only to
remember that it was in defence of poor Gregory the Evil One himself
had raced through the village.{11}