Post by Mandy Lifeboats on May 23, 2006 23:47:49 GMT
(With apologies to Squire Haggard and Samuel Pepys)
Wednesday May 17 1802
God damn this accurs’d drought, will it never end? Oh the misery and tears it is bringing us. Only yesterday Ezekiel Pike, the village sot drowned in a very large puddle on his way home from Poxy Poll’s Ale House. It did not help that he had fallen face forward into it but ‘tis the drought we must hold responsible. Then on Tuesday my dear lady wife fell in the ornamental lily pond (formerly the Rose Garden) and must surely have drowned but for the intervention of my man, Squaller, who leapt in and rescued her. For which I shortly gave the rogue a good hiding, firstly for that he rescued her and second for that he could not account for his britches or shirt.
I have sent Squaller for a quill and parchment and shall write a letter to the Officer of the King’s Highway to complain about Ezekiel’s puddle. Some serious damage might be done – exempli gratia, Hecuba, my favourite hunting mare might set her foot in the cavity and break a leg.
Thursday May 18
Great news from Little Staunchley, our neighbour village. I am told a man arrived there in royal livery with a letter for Squire Thornbush which he said was from the Parliamentary Comptroller of His Majesty’s Water. The scoundrelly knave has had the effrontery to inform the Squire that from henceforth we are not allowed to water our crops nor to wash our coaches and carriages. The reason being that there is a great shortage of water and we may not extract it from our own rivers. Squire Thornbush, not being a man to cross, especially when in his cups, had the rascal tarred and feathered and run out of the village on a board. What sport, would I had been there to see it.
Friday May 19
The continuing drought has led to the reappearance of the village duck pond which was taken for a playing field by the scoundrel of a schoolteacher for that he said the children of the village grow fat and unhealthy for want of exercise. This rogue, Oliver by name hath also said that this is caused by the hunk of bacon fat and slice of stale bread which I, as their bounteous benefactor do give to the village children. Hang the villain, I would horsewhip him to within an inch of his life, wer’t not for the fact that t’would be a waste of good money that I pay him, and that he is the fifth schoolmaster this year. I told him, in my young days we were soundly whipped every morning in case we had committed a crime and lucky to get a bowl and gruel and it never did us any harm. He looked at me in a strange fashion.
Saturday May 20
What sport we have had my lads. The newly found pond gave me an idea and I found, in our coach house, the old ducking stool which has be standing idle this many a year. I announced that we were going to find the persons responsible for the cursed drought by ducking. We ducked Goody Twemblitt for casting a spell on Jack Iveson’s pig that made it moo like a cow, and Mistress Cowpasture for pronouncing a curse on Ephraim Noakes that made him piss blood. The drought continued so we ducked Gammer Goodisides for having a black cat and Jane Chitlin for being ugly. Oh such sport as we had. Indeed I was wont to pronounce myself Witchfinder general but there came such a procession of village men wishing to denounce their wives that I grew quite tired. I ignored the cries for the ducking of Alice Hogweed, for that she might denounce me and say that she made me a potion for my member when he had some temporary difficulty in standing. The cure was effective but my person turned bright purple with weeping scrofulous scabs which is not something I would want nois’d about the village.
Sunday May 21
To church with my good lady wife to pray for an end to the drought. The canting priest could not resist the opportunity to preach hellfire and damnation and he strutted to the pulpit to tell us that the drought was the wrath of God come upon us and would not be ended until we repented our evil ways and renounced blasphemy, fornication and grinding the faces of the poor. At which the knave turned round and looked full at me. He shall taste my horsewhip, see if he don’t. Was ever a man so generous to his people. I feed and house them and never turn them off or cast them out unless they grow too feeble or too old to work. Was ever a generous employer so put upon. What’s more they all started to nod their heads until I gave them a look which promised much whereupon they all shook their heads at the priest and he took notice and started the Lord’s Prayer.
Monday May 22
With baker’s boy today can a filthy little screw of parchment. It said, as far as I could read it, that “owin to ye drout ther may be a shortidge of watter in ye millstreem leedin to flower shortidge so ye prys of ye lowf be goin up to two farthins”.
My dear lady wife tittered and said “Oh then, I suppose we must eat cake”. The woman has so little between her ears that I am amazed that when I clip her around them the sound does not ring hollow. I could hear Squaller tittering in the background – I fear his weekly whipping is overdue.
Tuesday May 23
The pestilential Oliver came today to give extra Latin tuition to my son who is down for Oxford although having even fewer brains than his mama I do not expect him to shine in that establishment. But I fear they care more about the colour of your money than the content of your brain so maybe the boy will succeed although I hear that the university is encouraging more sons of the poor to attend. Arrant nonsense – it will give them ideas above their station and they will not know how to behave at High Table. They will be wanting women to attend next. Pah.
Anyway the scurvy Oliver insisted on telling me his theory of the drought. He considers himself a man of science – on what grounds I know not – and is of the outspoken opinion that the drought is caused by ourselves. Science is too advanced, he opines, and the discovery of all these new gases and chemical elements has caused changes in the weather and we shall soon all be boiled to buggery. He calls this his theory of Universal Heating. Myself I think it is a theory of Unutterable Twaddle and I give more credence to the belief that Goody Twemblitt caused the drought by killing a frog on All Hallows Eve. It seems far more believable and will be a good excuse to give her another ducking.
All this nonsense gave me a brain ache and so to bed.
Wednesday May 17 1802
God damn this accurs’d drought, will it never end? Oh the misery and tears it is bringing us. Only yesterday Ezekiel Pike, the village sot drowned in a very large puddle on his way home from Poxy Poll’s Ale House. It did not help that he had fallen face forward into it but ‘tis the drought we must hold responsible. Then on Tuesday my dear lady wife fell in the ornamental lily pond (formerly the Rose Garden) and must surely have drowned but for the intervention of my man, Squaller, who leapt in and rescued her. For which I shortly gave the rogue a good hiding, firstly for that he rescued her and second for that he could not account for his britches or shirt.
I have sent Squaller for a quill and parchment and shall write a letter to the Officer of the King’s Highway to complain about Ezekiel’s puddle. Some serious damage might be done – exempli gratia, Hecuba, my favourite hunting mare might set her foot in the cavity and break a leg.
Thursday May 18
Great news from Little Staunchley, our neighbour village. I am told a man arrived there in royal livery with a letter for Squire Thornbush which he said was from the Parliamentary Comptroller of His Majesty’s Water. The scoundrelly knave has had the effrontery to inform the Squire that from henceforth we are not allowed to water our crops nor to wash our coaches and carriages. The reason being that there is a great shortage of water and we may not extract it from our own rivers. Squire Thornbush, not being a man to cross, especially when in his cups, had the rascal tarred and feathered and run out of the village on a board. What sport, would I had been there to see it.
Friday May 19
The continuing drought has led to the reappearance of the village duck pond which was taken for a playing field by the scoundrel of a schoolteacher for that he said the children of the village grow fat and unhealthy for want of exercise. This rogue, Oliver by name hath also said that this is caused by the hunk of bacon fat and slice of stale bread which I, as their bounteous benefactor do give to the village children. Hang the villain, I would horsewhip him to within an inch of his life, wer’t not for the fact that t’would be a waste of good money that I pay him, and that he is the fifth schoolmaster this year. I told him, in my young days we were soundly whipped every morning in case we had committed a crime and lucky to get a bowl and gruel and it never did us any harm. He looked at me in a strange fashion.
Saturday May 20
What sport we have had my lads. The newly found pond gave me an idea and I found, in our coach house, the old ducking stool which has be standing idle this many a year. I announced that we were going to find the persons responsible for the cursed drought by ducking. We ducked Goody Twemblitt for casting a spell on Jack Iveson’s pig that made it moo like a cow, and Mistress Cowpasture for pronouncing a curse on Ephraim Noakes that made him piss blood. The drought continued so we ducked Gammer Goodisides for having a black cat and Jane Chitlin for being ugly. Oh such sport as we had. Indeed I was wont to pronounce myself Witchfinder general but there came such a procession of village men wishing to denounce their wives that I grew quite tired. I ignored the cries for the ducking of Alice Hogweed, for that she might denounce me and say that she made me a potion for my member when he had some temporary difficulty in standing. The cure was effective but my person turned bright purple with weeping scrofulous scabs which is not something I would want nois’d about the village.
Sunday May 21
To church with my good lady wife to pray for an end to the drought. The canting priest could not resist the opportunity to preach hellfire and damnation and he strutted to the pulpit to tell us that the drought was the wrath of God come upon us and would not be ended until we repented our evil ways and renounced blasphemy, fornication and grinding the faces of the poor. At which the knave turned round and looked full at me. He shall taste my horsewhip, see if he don’t. Was ever a man so generous to his people. I feed and house them and never turn them off or cast them out unless they grow too feeble or too old to work. Was ever a generous employer so put upon. What’s more they all started to nod their heads until I gave them a look which promised much whereupon they all shook their heads at the priest and he took notice and started the Lord’s Prayer.
Monday May 22
With baker’s boy today can a filthy little screw of parchment. It said, as far as I could read it, that “owin to ye drout ther may be a shortidge of watter in ye millstreem leedin to flower shortidge so ye prys of ye lowf be goin up to two farthins”.
My dear lady wife tittered and said “Oh then, I suppose we must eat cake”. The woman has so little between her ears that I am amazed that when I clip her around them the sound does not ring hollow. I could hear Squaller tittering in the background – I fear his weekly whipping is overdue.
Tuesday May 23
The pestilential Oliver came today to give extra Latin tuition to my son who is down for Oxford although having even fewer brains than his mama I do not expect him to shine in that establishment. But I fear they care more about the colour of your money than the content of your brain so maybe the boy will succeed although I hear that the university is encouraging more sons of the poor to attend. Arrant nonsense – it will give them ideas above their station and they will not know how to behave at High Table. They will be wanting women to attend next. Pah.
Anyway the scurvy Oliver insisted on telling me his theory of the drought. He considers himself a man of science – on what grounds I know not – and is of the outspoken opinion that the drought is caused by ourselves. Science is too advanced, he opines, and the discovery of all these new gases and chemical elements has caused changes in the weather and we shall soon all be boiled to buggery. He calls this his theory of Universal Heating. Myself I think it is a theory of Unutterable Twaddle and I give more credence to the belief that Goody Twemblitt caused the drought by killing a frog on All Hallows Eve. It seems far more believable and will be a good excuse to give her another ducking.
All this nonsense gave me a brain ache and so to bed.