Where can I find information on farmers lives (born in 1740s)? I have searched for a while but can't find anything.
Full Version: 1740s
First, please don't forget to say please - everyone does on this forum
There is little on the web on this topic.
Your best bet is a book by Roger Hart called English Life in the eighteenth century; you will be able to get it at your local library.
Another good book is by John Addy, called The Agrarian Revolution.
On the web:
This google book has a section on farmers' lives in the 18th century,
and there is a (rather old-fashioned) book called Life in Georgian England which is available on the web; CTRL-F to get a search box and then look for 'farmer' to get lots of information.
One great way to get into rural life in these times is through poetry.
John Clare wrote loads of poems about country life -- look up the famous poems on A Summer Evening and A Summer morning.
and his poem The Shepherd's Calendar just takes you through an entire year in the countryside, month by month.
By far the best is a poem by Thomas Hood called Our Village - by a Villager, which gives a house-by-house description of his village:
There is a whole google-book on Rural life in eightneeth-century English poetry.
There is little on the web on this topic.
Your best bet is a book by Roger Hart called English Life in the eighteenth century; you will be able to get it at your local library.
Another good book is by John Addy, called The Agrarian Revolution.
On the web:
This google book has a section on farmers' lives in the 18th century,
and there is a (rather old-fashioned) book called Life in Georgian England which is available on the web; CTRL-F to get a search box and then look for 'farmer' to get lots of information.
One great way to get into rural life in these times is through poetry.
John Clare wrote loads of poems about country life -- look up the famous poems on A Summer Evening and A Summer morning.
and his poem The Shepherd's Calendar just takes you through an entire year in the countryside, month by month.
By far the best is a poem by Thomas Hood called Our Village - by a Villager, which gives a house-by-house description of his village:
QUOTE
OUR VILLAGE BY A VILLAGER.
Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village
of Bullock Smithy,
Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and
a withy;
And in the middle there's a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a
half;
It's common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three
horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf!
Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law
lease,
And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs,
four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.
Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when
the little village boys play at cricket;
Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and
stand right before the wicket.
There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and
pigsties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds,
With plenty of public-houses--two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of
Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads.
The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or
money can raise
A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a
ramshackle "neat post-chaise!"
There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their
ranks in life or their degrees,
Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, a little Methodist
Chapel of Ease;
And close by the churchyard, there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the
time is seasonable
Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very
low and reasonable.
There's a cage, comfortable enough; I've been in it with Old Jack
Jeffery and Tom Pike;
For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else
you like.
I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright
post;
But the pound is kept in repair for the sake of Cob's horse as is always
there almost.
There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way,
Old Joe Bradley,
Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very
badly.
There's a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of
Mr. Task;
But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of everything you ask.
You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old
sugary cask:
There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out,
For bill-stickers won't beware, but stick notices of sales and election
placards all about.
That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the
window is seen;
A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a red geranium, and a
teaplant with five black leaves, and one green.
As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines,
you may go and whistle;
But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth
of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!
There are three small orchards--Mr. Busby's the school-master's is the
chief--
With two pear trees that don't bear; one plum, and an apple that every
year is stripped by a thief.
There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable
Mrs. Gaby,
A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four
little girls and a baby;
There's a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that
never smokes,
For the Rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of
folks;
There's a barber's once a week well filled with rough black-bearded,
shock-headed churls,
And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies
in false curls;
There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small
greengrocer's, and a baker,
But he won't bake on a Sunday; and there's a sexton that's a coal
merchant besides, and an undertaker;
And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with
the London shops;
One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls, and
the other sells malt and hops,
And Mrs. Brown in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters,
Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler,
lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters.
Now I've gone through all the village--ay, from end to end, save and
except one more house,
But I haven't come to that--and I hope I never shall--and that's the
Village Poor House!
Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village
of Bullock Smithy,
Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and
a withy;
And in the middle there's a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a
half;
It's common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three
horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf!
Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law
lease,
And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs,
four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.
Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when
the little village boys play at cricket;
Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and
stand right before the wicket.
There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and
pigsties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds,
With plenty of public-houses--two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of
Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads.
The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or
money can raise
A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a
ramshackle "neat post-chaise!"
There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their
ranks in life or their degrees,
Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, a little Methodist
Chapel of Ease;
And close by the churchyard, there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the
time is seasonable
Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very
low and reasonable.
There's a cage, comfortable enough; I've been in it with Old Jack
Jeffery and Tom Pike;
For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else
you like.
I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright
post;
But the pound is kept in repair for the sake of Cob's horse as is always
there almost.
There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way,
Old Joe Bradley,
Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very
badly.
There's a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of
Mr. Task;
But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of everything you ask.
You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old
sugary cask:
There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out,
For bill-stickers won't beware, but stick notices of sales and election
placards all about.
That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the
window is seen;
A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a red geranium, and a
teaplant with five black leaves, and one green.
As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines,
you may go and whistle;
But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth
of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!
There are three small orchards--Mr. Busby's the school-master's is the
chief--
With two pear trees that don't bear; one plum, and an apple that every
year is stripped by a thief.
There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable
Mrs. Gaby,
A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four
little girls and a baby;
There's a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that
never smokes,
For the Rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of
folks;
There's a barber's once a week well filled with rough black-bearded,
shock-headed churls,
And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies
in false curls;
There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small
greengrocer's, and a baker,
But he won't bake on a Sunday; and there's a sexton that's a coal
merchant besides, and an undertaker;
And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with
the London shops;
One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls, and
the other sells malt and hops,
And Mrs. Brown in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters,
Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler,
lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters.
Now I've gone through all the village--ay, from end to end, save and
except one more house,
But I haven't come to that--and I hope I never shall--and that's the
Village Poor House!
There is a whole google-book on Rural life in eightneeth-century English poetry.
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