Frost comes in a doors. Little shining particles of ice, appear on the ceiling, cornice, & walls of my great parlor the vapor condensed on the plaster is frozen in spite of frequent fires in the chimney. I now set a chafing dish of clear-burnt charcoal in the room on the floor.
Snow on the ground, which is icy, & slippery.
The wind very still, for so low a barometer. Foxes abound in the neighbourhood, & are very mischievous among the farm-yards, & hen roosts. The fox-hounds have lately harrassed Harteley-woods, & have driven them out of those strong coverts, & thickets.
There is reason to fear that the plasterer has done a mischief to the last coat of my battin-plaster that should carry the paper of my room by improvidently mixing wood-ashes with the morter; because the alcaline salts of the wood will be very long before they will be dry at all, & will be apt to relax & turn moist again when foggy damp weather returns. If any ashes at all he should have used sea-coal, & not vegetable ashes; but a mixture of loam & horses dung would have been best.
Fires are made every day in my new parlour: the walls sweat much.
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