11 October, in the year of our Lord 2020
Lord’s Day. Up, and put on my pink twill shirt and thicker trousers against the cold of the morning, and after breakfast to the cooperatife shop for grocerys and a gazette. Returned to my own home severalle days since, after the final leg of our journy home, which was a great test and brought us into town past where lives my Lord Anglesey, I and my father beside me, his vigore sapped by the effort of the week and our coach delivering him to his home where was my mother, watching The Hurry Bakers on a magick screen. The weather fair today but the garden all wetted with rain, which makes me not want to work in it, onlie that I picked quinces from my furryapple tree, a few of them which have turned golden, and now I must leave them to rest in a cool place, and in a dark place on a tray, which I have washed after the busines with the chips; and after to my glass house for a half hour, to good purpose with my bollackworts and the watering of them, which look healthie and some are in flower or, if not, with buds.
Thence to dinner to the Whitefort Arms, on White fort street, where dined with Mr. M. Jones and Mr. R. Owen, on a rissoto made with a lobster Beisque, a rare roaste boeuff and potatos and a Pudding of an Artick Role, of a fine lemon [taste] and very pleasant, with two pints of wine from Chille, where we did discourse admirably, including of the burial which I went to with Mr. Owen on Friday at St. James’s, of the mother of my friend Adam, which had a good sermon which the preacher took from some leaves that she had wrote for the purpose, except not the full 20 pages of it, for which we were thankfulle. And all of us pretty contented though the plague is on the rise again, and people speaking openly of the fear they have for a second Lock Up, which has happen’d in some towns. Mr. M. Jones of especial good Affect, for he is to have enstalled into his house, which is in the middle of nowhere up a hill, a broad Band made of fibre, which is like a cumerbund, I think, of hemp or jute, that comes down the lane on poals and into his house through a hole they must make in his wall, and he says that along it will come squiggles of light to help his magick screen work better. Only there is a shortage of the type of cummerbund they need, which has a wire of copper to strengthen it, which perterbs him a little, I think, for the job was to be done in a week or two; but he hath profitted to his great content from a special Offer due to expire itself at the stroke of midnight — viz.: the 14l for the installing of it, waved; 10l on a Maister card to spend at the Exchange; and 2l 10s. for his ordering of it with a Rewardes card (I know not what that means). After, lifted Mr. Owen to his house, which has a new drive and a pair of sturdy gates, but his cat has a limp, and parted.
After supper, the Messenger from my father, I by return hoping to assuayge the feares he has for his chest and the Lesions in it, which, thanks be to God, are small and may have been in there for an excess of a yeare or two, causing him no trouble at all; or so thinks his Physician, and also that my father may benefitte from some special Rays of light shone into his chest that will make them disappeare, or so it is to be hoped. My poor father is much troubled, more than I have ever seen, and wishes it all done, but nothing I can do will hasten it; but to give himselfe purpose today he has been up a ladder to clean with a hose the gutters of the little building where he keeps his coach. I am puzzled as to all these Varieties of Light, which is put to more purposes than any I believed possible for it and can find nothing of it in my Opticks. But the light of stars is a constant, and my father says that last night, at two a-clock, when he was not sleeping, he saw in the sky the bright light of Sirius rising in the south-east, and the Great Bear and Orion the Hunter, his belt the clearest for many a year, and I ponder on how much of our lives is given to our minds joining random points with lines, to make from events a drawing that makes sense, and that the picture is different for each of us. And so to bed.