My insistence that a furrow be drawn at harrowing time, now allows the reapers a measure in the wheat-field, whose heads are otherwise buried in the stalks and unable to guide them. Thus small Improvements might yield much greater, and foresight be the loadstone of husbandry.
This day being the last of harvest, and thunder in the air, and the sky heavy, we brought the last load home with much rejoicing, and, alas, much ale in the downing. Our festive meal was sobered only by my wife’s appearance, at the door, during the songs, like a ghost of winter past, berating the labourers, and myself, for our luxury, and snatching [away?] from the midst of us the corn Doll, which action upset the labourers greatly. I said nay, she would not harm it, to appease them, for they were somewhat inflamed with drink, and might have pursued her, had I not promised them what I could not in truth [be certain of]. How halting the progress of Improvements, as long as this talk of corn spirits, and fear of suchlike, continues to clot our tines! I left the meal early, as is my wont, before the songs become lewd and what is [permissible?] in the eyes of God after hard work oversteps the boundaries and grows rash. It was my grandfather’s custom, in the time of the Commonwealth, to gather the harvesters in common prayer, and to allow only one tankard of ale apiece, and no songs, and but small fare upon the table. This I cannot hold by, and think it a mistake [not] to reward our brethren placed lower than us on the human scale for their unstinting efforts, or they might deem it [rotten?] that they labour in their sweat for other men, and not themselves, and break the chain of bonds and service that retains us [in] contentment, and themselves in peace. In truth, my wife appeared again before I left, and her countenance was such as to strike a chill in the proceedings, and to still the song, but I begged the assembled company to pursue their merriment, to strike up once more, and [not] allow present ills to frost over their reward. I could find my wife nowhere, but only the corn Doll, torn into a thousand pieces, as if chewed and spat out, upon our marital bed. I must make another the same forthwith, or the men will be exceeding anxious, and fearful of this place, [maintaining] the Shadow of the corn, as they call it, has been set free, to pollute us, as no doubt was my wife’s [desire?]. I must seek God’s forgiveness for adopting such heathen practices, as making a [corn] Doll. I write this in my room, with the merriment exceeding loud downstairs, the squeals of the maid louder than all others. I have touched too much of the wretched tincture, and must perforce [vomit?] though I am heartily pleased at the weight of corn now rested upon the straddle-stones, neatly thatched, that [is] exceeding odorous across the night air.
I write this with an an [unsteady?] hand. The company snoring across the benches, sprawled like Balthazar’s Feast over table, straw, and even out in the yard, some coupled together in the first sin, though clothed, mercifully, I stepped out in the middest night, and [crushed?] a fiddle underfoot, that was left [in] a rut, and took myself to the furthest rick, that I might take some corn in secret for the Doll, tho’ it be not from the last [sheaf], and my lanthorn casting its light by chance into the cow-stall as I passed, and seeing there a shape hanging like a sack, entered in, and held the lanthorn up, and met of a sudden the eyes of my wife lo[o]king wide-eyed at me, as if to berate […] but on reaching my hand out, she did turn at my touch [and] look likewise past my head […?] dangled by the neck above the manure passage, with a straw-rope the instrument of her [undoing?], and cut her down with much difficulty by [means of] a hay knife, and saw that she was expired, blue in the skin, and puffed, and [broken-necked?], and cried out, that God might take her into His arms, anyways, though I know where she is fast bound, and could [wake up] no one, cursed be that tincture! [except] the old dame, whose body [reeked of piss?], coming up the path at dawn, for so [long] had I lain with my wife in the cow-stall, amongst the straw and dung, stricken as [I] was, and vomiting.
God rest her soul.
I have been unable to write observations for a month. It is time already for the fallow to be sown with wheat. The heat of summer is gone, mercifully. A slight frost last night. The flails sound from the barn all day. My wife has been buried out of sacred ground, near the new Chapel, three weeks to the day. My maid talks of marriage.
I have sown my spewy field, a small one of three acres only, with hay-dust, that the acid-juice might be killed, after paring the turf and burning it.
The fallow was sown with wheat this day, October 12th. No gusts, and the new seeds-man has a fine cast.
My new hummellers stamp well, are lighter in action, and so less effortful. This year, I have tied a sheet across the door to prevent poultry from pecking the grain thrashed, low enough to retain the chaff-wind. Today we riddled with a bamboo mesh, but I noticed no difference from the split willow. The barley seed is good, in spite of the inclement weather. The wheat grain is full from the application of dung, I believe, in the late winter.
I saw my wife last night, at the window. I do not believe in spirits. My men will [not?] venture into the cow-stall alone.
Today I found a cross marked in chalk upon the tree in the yard. My maid talks of marriage, too loud.
My cousin, over from Bursop [i.e. Effley] is to proceed with turnips this next year, he says. I say, let the men of Surrey and Kent do what they will, I am for grass.
This November begins with much rain. The soil […]
Last night, again, my wife appeared at the upper window, though she outside, and I within alone. Her face was white, as chalk is, and [gleaming?]. Her expression was of an inmost […] I pray heartily every morn and eve, and in the night. The wind is high and doors blow about the yard, open[ing].
I have rebuked my maid for impropriety. To marry her, as is her suggestion, will annul the charitable nature of my adoption, while making the child no more my own in the eyes of the world, and will give rise to rumour. This angered her. I am paying £1 for her confinement, and the child. She is unruly. However, she retains her strength, and I think only of my son, and that the farm will remain Plumm’s, and [not] fall into my cousin’s hands, who is not of my name.
The trees about my upper field are almost all withered. The artificial hedge has budded. It is the northerly nature of the winds this last month of December that has killed them finally, coupled with the dryness of the past year, sufficient to viliorate the roots. The peas proved parched here, and this field is scarcely worth the toil and expense. I looked down upon the village, and at the market in progress, and considered how content the folk amongst those buildings were, to labour for others, and see only hobgoblins, and not their dec[e]ased. The two ravens hung up here are quite bleached of feather and flesh, without odour, and the crows are too numerous, owing to the previous […]
The crows are too loud. This is owing […]
This day my maid, entering the parlour, fell down upon the ground, and cried out, and was taken to the upper room, to the flock-bed, and was visited by the old dame, who will see her through, and at my insistence by Dr Ke[m]p, who pronounced her ready. She cries out very loud through this night, as I write this, and pray.
I have a daughter.
This New Year, my field that was fallow, and is now to wheat, has suffered somewhat from the harsh frosts of the past week, its soil being of a [spongy?] nature, and I fear the effect of the rags might be impoverished by the inclemency [of the weather.]