The Diary of a Country Parson 1758-1802
Book Choice for February 2021: The Diary of a CP by J. Woodforde.
Hello Again, Dear Legions of Readers,
I hope you are doing very well and holding it all together, in these rough days. Would you like a time machine to transport yourself to Georgian (that is pre-Regency) England? They were on the brink of war at many points during that time, but you wouldn’t learn much about that from this diary. Yes, a few Continental actions and military musterings in England are mentioned by the good Parson, but beyond being a bit worried about a French “invasion” which never materialized, his life was not much affected.
This is a book, I imagine, for the few, rather than the many. If you like forty-year records of daily life without electricity (but surprisingly, WITH inoculation against smallpox) than this is the book for you! Let’s be real, this book has been my companion off and on through many seasons, (read: it has taken me two YEARS to get through). But I don’t regret a thing, it was a bucolic place to travel to every once and awhile, see what the Parson was doing, which really ran the gamut between pottering in his garden, shopping in Norwich and forcibly marrying men bound in chains to the women they had impregnated – now THAT’S a law that has fallen out of use! (And obviously, I agree with the Parson’s regrets that “such unions seem unlikely to lead to happiness on either side”).
This book, as published, is actually extracts from five volumes of diaries kept by the Parson, and although I started this one with all my normal (over-the-top levels of) historical zeal; I am actually ok with not reading the ENTIRE thing unexpunged. I have actually had enough of the Parson listing every dish on his table—good grief they ate a lot of meat. This is, by the way, what I originally picked up the book for, its “descriptions of gargantuan meals” (as says the back cover) which I had heard about from the audiobook of Bill Bryson’s At Home: A Short History of Private Life. And no, I can’t tell you exactly why I wanted to eat vicariously—but as you likely know by now, I cannot tear myself away from detailed accounts of old timey domesticity. Even domesticity now, is of perennial fascination to me. My main fun has always been interior design, literally design, the attempt to make a small space super functional, airy yet cozy, minimalist but not cold….it is an ongoing enjoyable task, this “living comfortably.”
So yes, this book is about the gentry (specifically the sub-genus: members of the ministerial class), that weird top section of the middle class before there really was one in England, that Jane Austen world of obsession with who-is-slightly-above-whom (and they all were mushrooms to the nobility anyway). Its a section of society I keep coming back to although I know it is wrong—for these people’s fortunes to have ballooned and made Mansfield Park a possibility (the house and its grounds I mean) there needed to be intense exploitation of people inside and beyond England, we must bear this in mind as we fantasize about dressing for dinner and coming down to exercise our sparkling wits around the table, released from all food preparation, serving or cleanup duties.
I used to think that was the ultimate fantasy, to live like Parson Woodforde and be released from such basic cares—to have more time to create my art (that is, to write dry history books)—as the Parson used his extra energies to write his diary, now considered a fairly dry history book….(this seems to be rather a circular argument)… At any rate, Parson Woodforde possessed nearly unlimited free time on basis of who he was in society (he even had a niece live with him as he wasn’t married, presumably so she could interface with the servants and order the dinner, which was considered beneath a gentleman’s dignity) and if he hadn’t written this diary he would have disappeared completely. His life, while eminently comfortable, did not necessitate that he left any particular kind of mark on the wider world. But he was a fairly sweet man and there are several funny, tragic and surprising episodes in this book to delight any time traveler who revels in the mundane, and is in the mood for a good, long, read. It was also a positive aspect of the book that it preserves accounts of many regular working class people of whom no other records remain.
February is a good month to read diaries.
————————————————DISS NEWS—————————————————
So, it is finally happening. After many weeks of almost literally wading through a swamp of old emotions and the inner turmoil of just getting…nowhere….slowly…the tide has turned a bit and I am writing fastidiously and fairly ok—once and awhile I have a few seconds where I feel like I am flying.
That is great—especially considering that I am writing up page-long discussions of the semantic ranges and phonological values of signs, a task that lets just say, I have been dreading since last Fall, when I first realized that it was in fact the task that I have set myself—before that point it wasn’t clear how this was going to end. It’s going to end in pedantic philology—I know, I was quite surprised myself. That is hard and sounds kinda boring. “Why did I do this to myself?” has been asked many a time. While there definitely are interesting findings every so often, I sometimes wonder why we paint ourselves into the corners we find especially difficult — we commit ourselves to the things we suspect we are the worst at. Or is this just me. (Is this growth?) May develop this theme later.
Even so, there are tiny flashes when my brain puts the clues together (I think it does this while I am sleeping, mostly) to remind me that THIS could mean THAT, and to check that one particular article again before moving on (and cite it properly before you file it girl, there isn’t going to be a next time). Fortunately, I do love a soul-crushing deadline. (I think). Deadlines are the only reason things get done, and the things that get done are imperfect – but at least they exist.
Two Tips, for you and me:
1. “This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap” — G.B. Shaw
2. “Never have an unpublished thought.” P.M.M. Daviau