Vox Meditantis

25th October 1766

I am sat in the old turret-room these two hours past, though Mama called me twice to help with the mending. The light grows thin and grey, yet I cannot bear to descend. From this window I see the fields below, stubbled and brown, and the wood beyond where the rooks gather in their hundreds. The darkness comes so early now, and with it such cold as makes my fingers ache upon the pen.

There is but little bread left in the house, and that grown hard. Cook says the flour is dear this year, and Father’s face grows stern when she speaks of it. This morning I watched her divide the last of the bacon amongst five plates, each portion scarce enough to cover a shilling-piece. My belly cries out even as I write, though I am ashamed to confess it. Mama says we must practise fortitude and remember those whose sufferings are greater than ours. Yet I cannot help but wonder what we shall eat when the winter comes in earnest.

I have been reading in Mr. Milton, which Father left upon the table. There is a passage wherein the Serpent tempts our first Mother with promises of knowledge, of ascending unto the very stars. It put me in mind of a strange fancy – I dreamt last night that a travelling man came to our door, offering to carry folk up unto the Moon itself, if they would but pay him. In my dream I asked him, How much would you require for such a journey? And he answered, All that you possess, and your soul besides.

When I woke, I lay thinking upon it. What manner of coin could purchase the impossible? And would I trade a crust of bread – which is real, and keeps body from failing – for a glimpse of that cold, distant sphere? Methinks it is the Devil’s own question. We are meant to fix our eyes upon what is needful and honest, not to covet what lies beyond our reach. Yet still my mind wanders upward to that pale lamp in the heavens, and I wonder what light it might cast upon this darkened world.

The candle burns low. Soon I must go down to supper, though there shall be little enough of it.

Georgian Britain, late 1760s: the diary’s concerns with dear bread and scant stores reflect years of poor harvests that raised grain prices and strained household economies across town and country. In 1766, “the dear years” saw food riots in several English counties, magistrates issuing assize controls on bread, and charitable relief expanding through parish poor rates and church collections. Domestic life centred on seasonal preservation – salting meat, drying apples, and managing dwindling flour – while devotional reading shaped children’s moral language. In the decade following, enclosure advanced, altering rural livelihoods; reformist agitation grew; and recurrent subsistence crises informed debates on market regulation, parish relief, and the moral duties of the propertied.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.