Ulverton (12 page)

Alas.

Adieu.

A.C.

Ulverton Hall.

September 12th, 1743.

To Mr William Sykes:

Received – one snuff-box, & a quantity of clothing, formerly your own, addressed to Elijah Mabberley, Maddle Lane, Ulverton.

This is the last communication shall occur between us. Suffice to say that your folly has reaped its ill reward: the bulky nature of the parcel made concealment beneath Mabberley’s shirt impossible. He was thought to be stealing – was followed by Bint – was apprehended in the act of passing the bundle to the black boy, behind the laurel. Both were taken. The black boy don’t know anything. Mabberley would not betray me. A simple and loyal soul. He is before the magistrate on Tuesday. I am to be released, at my husband’s entreaty – he is full of kindness – to attend the spectacle, if he is to hang. Tho’ this won’t be likely sooner than October, when I am Out in any case. The black boy Leeward was delivered of a beating by Wall and Bint between them – I heard his screamings – tied up – carried upon the first ship at Portsmouth direct for the West Indies.

The Squire visits tomorrow. I will give him this to forward. I will tell him it is the invitation to the Christening.

I hope you find your stay in Italy pleasing, after your fashion.

Your verse I have burned.

I might fill a page – but let my consolation be – no, ’tis trash – our senses are all deluded –

– save skin upon a candle –

– so –

SONDAY THE 20
day of thi incant aug 1775 Surly Ro Ulver

Deer francis

Mr john Pounds tailer du rite this for mee my sone I dont kno how manny thar will Bee of us take pitty on thy mother francis lunnen is a wickit plaic yr father ood bee dropin teeres He sed as you alers hed a wagin tung I bee afeart francis i ent bin to lunnen afore

Mind yr sole

thy evere loving

mother

Sara Shail

Sonday 3 day of this incant sept 1775 Surlyro Ulvoton

My owne son francis,

I ont bare it you mus reply the wagon doo tak this plees replye francis my som

thy evere lovving mother

Sara Chail

Sonday 17 daye of the instan 1775 sept Surley rew Ulv

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 wayes 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