Vox Meditantis

13th September 1771

The autumn rains have begun in earnest, and I find myself taking refuge in the dame school’s modest library, where young Master Talloway permits me to examine his collection of mercantile treatises whilst the children recite their lessons in the adjoining chamber. The sound of their voices mingles with the steady drumming of water against the casements, and I am put in mind of how relentlessly the tide turns – carrying away what we thought secure, depositing fresh sorrows upon our shores.

How bitter it is to witness the innocence of these pupils, their faces bright with the certainty that virtue shall be rewarded and affection returned in kind. Would that I possessed such faith still. This morning brought news that the colonial trade grows ever more precarious, with Parliament’s latest restrictions threatening to dry up the very streams that have sustained my commerce these seven years past. Yet it is not the prospect of financial ruin that sits so heavily upon my breast, but rather the remembrance of how readily I believed that prosperity might purchase me the regard I so desperately sought.

Mr. Ashgrove’s letters have ceased entirely now – those missives that once arrived as regularly as the Thames’ flow, bearing promises as insubstantial as morning mist. I was fool enough to fancy that my growing success in the silk trade, my connexions with the finest drapers in Cheapside, might elevate me in his estimation. How thoroughly I deceived myself, imagining that a woman’s commercial achievements could overcome the disadvantages of her birth and station.

The children’s master enquired yesterday how often I walk or run between my various establishments. “Daily, sir,” I replied, “for my business demands constant motion betwixt warehouse, market, and counting-house.” Yet I did not speak the deeper truth – that I traverse these streets not merely for commerce, but in desperate flight from the solitude that awaits me each evening. My footsteps echo hollow against the cobblestones, a rhythm as steady and meaningless as my own heartbeat. I have walked the length of London Bridge countless times, watching the dark waters below carry away the detritus of the city, and wondered whether my own hopes might not join that sorry cargo.

The dame’s young scholars know nothing yet of how swiftly the currents of fortune may reverse, how a woman may find herself drowning in waters she once navigated with such confidence. They believe, poor creatures, that industry and moral rectitude shall be their salvation. I have learnt otherwise. We are all of us subject to tides beyond our mastery, and love – that most treacherous of waters – cares nothing for our accomplishments or our yearning.

The rain continues its relentless percussion. I shall remain here until it passes, though I suspect the storm within my own breast shall prove more enduring than any temporal weather. May the Almighty grant these innocent children better fortune in their affections than He has seen fit to bestow upon one who sought to purchase regard with worldly success.

Late Georgian Britain, marked by expanding imperial trade and mounting colonial disputes, underlies the diary’s concerns about merchant uncertainty and strained affections (see the generated image above). In the late 1760s and early 1770s, British Parliament tightened commercial controls – such as customs enforcement after the 1767 Townshend duties and ongoing regulation of colonial imports – creating unease among London traders reliant on Atlantic networks. Rising tensions contributed to boycotts, episodes like the 1770 Boston Massacre, and, soon after 1771, heightened conflicts that culminated in the American Revolutionary War (1775–1783). The war disrupted trade routes, reshaped British mercantile fortunes, and spurred later debates over imperial reform and commercial policy across the empire.

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