The next evening Mr. Willock resumed his office of lecturer, and was fully attended by the young family.
“I am now,” said he, “going to tell you a story, in which the passions of horror, terror or fright, anger, hatred or jealousy, and despair, will be represented; it is called
The Wicked Baron, and Nicholas the Honest Wood-cutter.
“In the South part of the forest of Dean, in Gloucestershire, there lived, many years ago, a poor wood-cutter, named Nicholas; he was not more than thirty years of age, of a handsome figure, lusty, and strong. Nicholas was rough and sturdy as an oak, but bent as tenderly to the tale of distress as the gourd to the wind; he was apt, it is true, to be a little ill-tempered at times, and somewhat sour; besides being a little rude and unfashioned in his manners; but somehow or other, so finely delineated were the characters of nature and truth in his mind, that the outlines might be seen in his face, whenever distress or misfortune claimed his protection.
“Nicholas had a wife named Gertrude, and she was naturally a good woman, though she would fret and scold whenever they happened to be poor, which was no uncommon case with them: they had nothing but hard labour to trust to for support, and had a young boy to provide for; besides, it unfortunately happened for both of them, that Gertrude was the daughter of a once-wealthy farmer, but who had been ruined by a murrain among his cattle. Gertrude had therefore received a little better education than Nicholas, who could, however, read and write, a great wonder in those days, and which he owed, when a boy, to the kind instructions of a good old monk. Gertrude, who recollected her father’s happy board, was rather out of temper with her situation, and so foolish, as to be constantly wishing for riches, and pining after wealth, which was never likely to come to her share.
“It happened one night, after Nicholas had returned home from work, and finding Gertrude cross, that something like the following conversation took place between them; but, my dear children, you must avoid this manner of speaking, which is only used among poor country people.
‘My dear, how ill-tempered you are!’ cried Nicholas.—‘I may well be ill tempered,’ replied Gertrude; ‘this is the last meal we shall have this week.’—‘That is more than you know, my dear,’ answered her husband.—‘I am almost famished, I am,’ cried Gertrude.—‘Look at the poor cat, and make yourself happy, my dear,’ replied Nicholas.—‘Well, there’s your supper,’ cried Gertrude, taking a small piece of meat from the pot.—‘Supper do you call it,’ answered Nicholas; ‘why there’s scarcely enough to bait a mouse-trap: but wont you take a bit, my dear?’—‘I shant touch any of it,’ answered Gertrude, peevishly.—‘Well, for my part,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I’ll say grace even for this morsel.’
“Nicholas said all he could to put his wife in a good humour, but was not lucky enough to succeed. She took it into her head that he was bantering of her, and began to sob and cry, reproaching him with bringing her into poverty.—‘But it serves me right,’ cried she. ‘I might have married a rich yeoman, so I might, and have had plenty, that I might.’—‘Shu, nonsense,’ answered Nicholas. ‘To throw myself away upon a chopper of wood,’ cried she; ‘and there too, we have had to bring up that idle boy, because, truly, you found him laid in the forest one night.’—‘Now don’t say a word about that,’ answered Nicholas, ‘or I shall get as ill-tempered as yourself, out of mere good nature.’