by Adam Thorpe
Deerst sun francis
plees replye a meditly els thy mamy shalt die my son off greeve Mr P tak thi to the wagon God speed itt I praye itt bent be cort when bee the day I shll buck thy weddin shirt & soe as itt hev a ter you mus look trimm thee mus replye
thy loving motther
Sarah Shail
Sundaye 1st dae of thi insant Oct 1775 Surley row Ulvoton
My son francis
thy leter was sh verry shoart the bee poorely shore enohg it were vingern hissop at the mowthe wot thee donne taikin that hat I minds i when thee wer danglin att my duggs they still be teart when i minds I tha thee wer a guzslerer al rite nowe theell be danglin wi all off lunnen lookin upp an lahging alover they faices Mr P hev his shoos on a brickc itt be the wett God hev massy on thee rite emeedittly gie itt to the laddy at the gaite Mr P brothr paye hur he saye Noogait be a terble stink fro the strit
thy lovin mothe
Sara Shail
her bee cow slipp for the cramps
Sunday 15 daye off this insan Oct 1775 surley Rowe Ulvetane
My dear francis my ownly sum,
I hev writ to the King wi Mr Ps hande it shall moov they stoney hartes think on yr sole an pray to God judith saye you hev the tyfoit shee hev thi from john witeacre as hed itt fro a mann on the coche as hev jus lef thy side his naime bee Tom bolt he sais the hev ratts bigern ours an you bee bit an swoln lord hev massy on uss all i ont bare itt wen I thinks on thee lnnen bee a wickit plaice tha hats blo off temtay shin rite how thee bee I hev a blakk spott on my dugg as be lik fier very sor
thy ever lovein mothr
Sara Shail
Sunday 29th daye of thinsan Oct 1775 Surlyrow Ulverten
My lam
thy leter tinds the fier of my destes I bourn and they dam jintlemen & pasens ooll swing fro al ower heeles sas Mr P the all hev ther tung in the kings ars ower lorde charls be mity chufd at the noose ses judith tha bee yr pochin dayes las weeke he wer blubbrin att all his swanns ther craws wer slitt judith ses the laik wer redd fro they crooel crooel burn thi inn the fier tell thy mammy my lam wen the daye bee theell com back hear arter ward for christern berry ole my son my lam wee be detarmied to fine the shillns uppon my worde
thy loving mother
Sara Shal
her bee clivers leef grind upp for thy tyfoit feavr
Sunday 12th day of this inst Novr 1775 Suleyrowe Ulver
My deer lam francis
wot my son be cutt up inn to ribons wot bee they sur jans jantlemen of the divil too cut upp my owern sun no hand oll toch thee a hare of thy hed els dam my eies an dam this fifly gurnray of engelin for barin my boddy an thine this woreld hev no massy itt makes my blakk spott biggern afore it maks my eies teart it makkes i blas feeme agin God an al His workes it maks i scroop an skweel like ower doore as thee met bee mendin nowe we shll cum onn a waggern by nite wen bee the daye my lam if so bee as thee ent took afore with thy feverswet an fiflth my lam
thy loveng mother
Sara Shail
use this papper atwen the lines
P.S. mark itt bee TRANS POTASHIN for caryin thy cowpse aff I hope ye nkose that
john Pounds tailr
Sunday 19th daye o this instan Novr 1775 Surley rowe Ulverton
My lovly lam my son francis
thy mark on the papper came Mr P red itt the numbers i dint paye a penny so the daye be March 31st it bee lik a nale in in my hed Mr Ps brother oll bring thee yr shirte as I hev cleend & lef owt al nite in the moon lite itt maide itt verry wite for thee do you hev a blaide to cutt yr hares & chin you mus be trimm all of lunnen ool be theyar an the famly thy wilfe were heyre yes erdaye shee ses you med hev com bakk wi a sakk o shillns stead of thy cowpse i sed bekky thare ont bee no cowpse hole to berry iff so bee as wee ent at Ti bourne lik yo saye my dov my lam to saiv thee fro them sur jans bluddy dam villions wi their nives & spesely sores i dont heyar swaldld bells francis wiout I heyar thy deth bell tang
lord hav marsy on thee in thy aflition
thy greefing mother
Sara Shail
P.S. hav you frends enouhg to cary it aff els weell be took al so
john Pounds tailer
Sundaye 3rd day off this ins Dec 1775 Surly Rowe Ullverton
My deesrt lam Francis
wot bee a mother to du in her destres I mus kape my reaserlusen i bee deturmed thee ooll niver be inn too bluddy ribons them bludy villions dont feear my lam my dov they ont laye a hand onn thee untill the our of djudgemen cometh like a wind an mammon bee strukk down they oll riggle like rabets in thy nette thee soed tha nette weeakes & weeakes by can delelite Mr Ps bro ses a thy hands wer spreethd wi weltin they filfly walls my son thee mawnt be roonin thy hands as mus bee layed on my dugg to heale thy mammy thy swet mus make hole an all so mary oadm for her baren bely thy ded handes mus rub & gie life a noo my sun danglin man danglin man 3 lives fro thee I carste thee forth fro my woom my chitt I gied thee iverry mosel afore my owern mowth you ont bee carste inn too hell fier they had best dokk I all so afor I hare on thy hed bournes my dovv rite a meditly & gie itt to hur att the gaite Mr Ps bro gie her a shilln las time Mr P be a bleesin to a poore wido we bee al in extreem destres ther ent a lofe for chirlidern or narn onn us a tall we gates the rine & they gates the leen sartainly dam they euies
thy every loving mothr
sara Shail
P.S. weyar to find 7 shillns for the hang man you aks too much heell taik 7 shilln an likewise fro the sur jans an tye the not tihgt jus the saim I hev seed itt my sealfe aksept thy LOT an praye
john Pounds tailer
Sundaye eve of ower Lords Birthe 1775 Suleyrowe Ulv
My deerst lam francis my owern sun
pleese rite emeeditly I feear you med bee ded we be shramd wi this terbl cawld Mr P hev a terbl hackin caf I dun hev morn 2 stikk to bourne think on thy poore mammy my son as bee ded ripe for diin save shee mus kape her sonn hole for berryal my blakk spot be grawin
thy greefin mothr
Sara Shaill
P.S. gie yr leter to my brothr wen he cums
john Pounds tailr
Sunday 7th daye of this yer of ower lord 1776 Surley rowe Ul
My deesrt owernly francis
Mr Ps bro com heyar for kursmas feste he ses he seed thee in tha fifly stinkin plaice wi no winndoes he hed to spitt els he odd bee feverd he brung the leter dont rite such terbl things I ent afeart of no hawn tings i hev my hor shoo i ent nevar seed the wite shepard on the rode you ont be cutt upp my dov Mr P ses you ont be hawnting & trubling us if they teres thee up spesely iff they sores upp thy hed butt you ont bee wi thy famealy cumin to taik thee dowen afore them bludy villions they sur jans as di sec ses Mr P they ont tuch a hare of my sunns hed as I gied my owern milk too wot wd thy poore dadda saye nowe I mus stop acos Mr P hev bin heyare al arte noon wi his tung stukk out ritin my foyce think on last things & thy sole this noo yeyar ent bee no beter sartin lee I hev coursed they bugers they hares ooll dropp out I bye I.
thy loving mammy
Sara Snail
Mr P ooll gie thi to the karrier for 2 peny he bee too kinde
P.S. wot yo esespect our lord sufered & was not saivd by shillns aksept thy LOT ladd & maik pese wi thy maiker yo al wais wer a dail too cokk shore
john Pounds tailer
Sundaye 21st daye othi inst Jany 1776 Surly rowe ulvertone
Deerst my lamfrancis,
I hev wri to the king a gin butt Mr P ses that wer sartainly steelin tha hat as did blo of medbee lord Charls did hev a hande in itt hee du hate thee for pochin his dere my sonn med bee I ooll plede onn my nkees afore his caridge iff it don stop theyars an end for my sealfe wot wd we du a thout Mr P no my sonn he be duin thi for nort save an ol widers lov ther ent nort evill in thatt thee ont be carsting thy loose tung on uss thee alers wer a jumm per francis leefin thy mamy for gone to lunnen an steelin hats they hev hores morn hares on my hed not Mr P as hev hed the pawsley he bee lahgin wot els sav yowelin wen itt be so terbl cawld an hollo the mus praye for uss thee mus praye mend thy way
es in thes las weeakes my lam
thy lovin mather
Sara Snail
P.S. dont rite such tthings agin shee be a fiene ooman by God
john Pounds tailer
Sundaye 4th daye of thi inst Febr 1776 Surley rowe ulver
My deere Sonne
if you rite such wordes agin wee ont bee cumin be thee hole in spririt to rite such tthings thee mus be paceant thee mus spectect the wurs if thee dont dangel thee ooll be for trans pottashin like Kristern brin Judith ses as you oll bee wontin us to hang on thy heeles arter the kart hev lef thee danglin butt I ses no he wonts uss to cut he dowern afore the sur jans doo she ses that ll bee a grate fite wot do thee think thy mother owern mother her sealf ont be savin her sonne dont rite such tthing francis it bee more teart than my blakk spott tha thy han mus mend thy hans were al wais fine at mendin I stil hev thy net hidd I stroak itt it at nite itt hev thy smel my dovv wot bee a poore wido to du haaf frastid in this winer cawld to gett thee free I praye too the lorde an saye my rimes al nite
thy loving mamy
Sara Snail
P.S. shee bee trwely suffereing els I odd stopp riting dreckly ye be a dying man so mind yr sole youer self ladd
john Pounds Tailer
Sundaye the 18 daye of thisint Febry 1776 Surly row Ulver
Deer francis
thee mus replye thee mawnt fal in too desespare I be verry hungarye I dremed las nite of the apel thee colard for I outer the Manoor orchut thy litel fingars opt an ther wer the apel for thy mammy braive boy it still taist swet on my tung (shee bee weepin nowe john Pounds) I hev soed thy trowsers Mr P gied i the thred wen I smoothd they owt it wer crinlked intoo them shapes that mean a deth i dont need no sine rite on this papper iff yo dont hev no penies lef medbee that hatt it were coursed a divils hatt to temp thee th wurk howse for I nowe my lam mind yr sole rite a meaditly
thy loving mother
Sara Shail
P.S. you mus hele her blakk spot else itt wil kil hur stark ded hev massy on thy mother ladd wee ent faint hartes as ye saye but we ent fooles neithr
john Pounds tailer
Sundaye the 3rd daye oth instan March 1776 Surly row Ulv
My deerst boy my lam
wot thee be sufferein in thy sole to saye such terbl tthings I bee strukk dum heyar bee wett an stinkin an hollo I hev a caf an Mr P al so I odd cutt aff my dugg for thee I hev no shillns to paye for a coffen or srowd butt thy wilfe saye she hev aksed thee a for but thee hev spend yr monny on bere an gaiming & hev kep nun inn yr poket nowe thee mite du goode a for the lord or the divil taiks thee thy sole med be yowlin danglin owver hell fier wen thy hande med press on my dugg an the Lord sees itt bee good an collers thee for hevn dreckly minut my blakk spott be heled by thy swet thy lipps hev bin a bowt my dugg lang a goe now thee mus mend hur my lam my dovv praye & dont deseper that bee tem tashin wuss tha a fine hatt as blows aff in the strit do thee hev a blaide to shave thy chinn an thy bootes mus be spik or the famealy ont be proude
God bless
fro thy evere loving mothr
Sara Shail
thy wordes were borning firebrans to my hart an Mr P al so he hev spend shillns for thy sak francis
P.S. I hev nott rubd thy mothers dugg with my lipps to maik a spott you mus not slan dere thy mother tthink on djudgement daye thy dam tung wil bourne thee ye mus aproch thy las ower with a clene hart wot I saye be trwe by God hur spott be gurt as a shilln peese an hard ye mus hele itt
john Pounds tailr
Sondaye the 17th daye of thi instan March 1776 surly row ulver
My owernly deerst sun francis
this bee ower las letter a for thy hangin daye judith ses thee be brort owt ope neckd & theyar bee a mos terble ror wind aff that gert bigg river run too the armes of the lord he shalt cuvver thy nekk & holt thy hed hi them as larf ont larf at dums daye heyar be catt ment for thy gritt putt it aneath thy tung dreckly minut they karts thee upp the strit my lam you ont bee blulbrin an maikin i a shamd I shll waive my shorl itt bee the redd wone you mus waive too yr mamy in yr wite finery my buntin abram Web oll mak the coffen thy wilfe hev scrapd shillns for hee ol sam daye wen upp a tree & playd God an frited abram haaf to dearth I hopes thee be lahgin at tha my lam thee odd yowl in the awld dayes my chitt judith shell gie the floures to thee for i shll bee watin att the galowes tree dont shaim uss nowe rite yr las leter but dont rite terbl tthings my dovv
I praye for thy sole an hev sed my rimes wee shll bee 5 I hopes thee hev more theyar to du the job spesely as ucle Rob hev a badd leg God spede my sonne
thy ever loving mothr
Sara Snail
P.S. I hev not red to hur al you rote God forgif thee thy tung asll soon bee lillin oute al rite if thee wernt a doomd felon I odd du a damd deal wuss for thy slandere tha tell thee nowe I hev — thy mother an hev rubbd her duggs with my — for eche leter rit may the divil taik thee as wer niver more tha a ras kel by God wen thee bee slicd upp & throne too the doggs I ool be in heavn al rite with thy mamy soein a fine net in & oute wen thee bee danglin wotch thy cokk it don go upp itt shll al rite but thee ooll be pissin thy sole in too the dust you hev yr jus reward i hev mine al rite
john Pounds tailer
yr mam think this bee a praier so itt bee
Sunday the 7th day of this inst April 1776 Surley Row Ulverton
My dear Francis,
Mr John Bate our Curate writes this for me. The Rector has paid the Coachman 1 shilling to carry it, I have always been a worthy Church attender. We are all very glad at your Pardon. I believe your Prosecutor was moved by God’s merciful example to forgive you I hope he has a fine new hat. I have Wept many times for joy, etc. Your mother is exceedingly joyous that you shall be coming home when you have the Money for the coach. Judith also was glad, and your wife also. Mr Pounds trembled with Shock as if he had seen a Ghost. This is the power of Prayer. God be with thee my son. You must not pick up any more fine hats.
Your ever loving Mother,
Sarah Shail
P.S. My black Wen remains very Sore.
6
Rise
1803
HE WERE A master carpenter, but no master o’ men. He didn’t allus treat us aright. This were Abraham Webb. His father an granfer were wainwrights, but ater the fire when he were only fourteen there was that much work to do he got down an carved hisself a post in joinery so as he become the finest an most skilled hereabouts. There was that much work to cut, it lasted him years, for them as could pay wanted all manner o’ pretty cupboards, an stairs, an mantelshelves. The fire took away, what, a quarter of Ulver, in ’45. Bitter sweet for carpenters an suchlike. I were only ten year but I remimbers it. Blizzed away half o’ Main Street afore they dowsed him. Melted the rime out to Five Elms. It were a raw winter, but river were warm as a maid.
Aye, Abraham rised on that, for sure. It were his brother did the waggons, though they shared the yard. The brother’s son took over now.
I become apprenticed on account of a girl I fancied. She were milkmaid over at Barr’s farm, this side o’ river. I were jus on fourteen year, speech like turnin a gate on rusty hinges an never stuck up to a girl afore. Meets her early on the way to milkin, luggin her bucket, but it were split awmost atwo an she were that low, bein a pail she’d a-had from when she first begun, that I says to her, ‘I’ll make thee one afresh, Kath’ – thinkin as how that be the shortest way to her heart. So I lops some chestnut an bangs away, an makes such a botch she only laughs when I shows he to her. I had no skills then, he were all square, as I had nowt to bend the timber with – though she be white an soft, chestnut. I vowed then an there to learn myself joinery. How to make wood do for me what my tongue don’t.
She buckles to wi’ old George Stroude, young tanner down Fogbourne way, soon ater. Reckon as he were workin more’n his straps backerds an forruds, when I were shilly-shallyin. Aye.
Heh.
Though I bint grizzlin, mind. I got down to’t afore long. A brace o’ nippers. Aye aye.
‘T
hat’s a Webb,’ people’d say, ‘that there’s a Webb.’ They’d point at their cupboards an say it, or in the church where he’d done poppy-heads. It weren’t nothin fancy, it weren’t fancywork like the stuff up at the Hall, an it weren’t hardly ever painted, an gilded, as I sees up at the Hall – but it were solid an agreeable, an still be, for nowt o’ Webb’s work have ever buckled or cracked. He chosed his timber like a body chooses a woman. For life, an no shilly-shallyin.
He have a-bin in the ground these five year, and I misses him. Winter of ’97 he died. Jus afore he hacked his last he’d cock a ear, abed, an hear the dingin in the yard, an he’d know what we were puttin together. He knowed when it were his own coffen. He hears the boards ripped, an sits bolt up in bed, an swears we en’t got it seasoned proper. All through the hammerin o’ the brads it were shaped beautiful in his own head, an he sweared like fury when he heared one hit off. I says sweared, but it weren’t no blasphemy, for he were a church-goer all his days. An that be at the heart o’ this story, if you were to cleft it – that, an his hardness. He were pure oak.
Now I don’t hold wi’ them as says Abraham Webb were the spit of his father in skill. His father stuck to wheels, an had other men do gates an stairs an so forth. No comparin. But I do know as Isaac Webb’s father, Jepthah Webb, bein Abraham’s granfer, made a wheel poorly so it broke an pitched a man into the next Kingdom. Aye. That were way back, up at Plumm’s, the year old dame Anne was made. But by my reckonin, Abraham had soaked up the skill so he were well nigh saturated, an hardly needed to larn in his head. He ud allus have a sweet smell about him, for he were reared in sawdust. You should’ve seed his hands, hard as a nave an as well nigh chopped, for they’d never been more’n a night away from irons, an allus dark as a gipsy’s from oak-juice, he’d felled so many.
Thank’ee.
Aye. He were right stumpy, he were, an ud allus stand straddle wise, when he weren’t at summat, wi’ them hands in his britches, axin nowt o’ narn save they get to it, an ud give a bastin to the young-uns if they gives him lip, or shambles in late. I knows, for I feeled it, an it allus drayed blood. But he were patient as the Lord wi’ an aggy line, if the boy was eager, an ud allus show us the right way. He were two men.