I wrote an AI-assisted poem and song for my 3rd great-grandfather John Richman (1788-1867) to celebrate his life in "Richman's Threads Of Time" -- A Family History Poem, Song and Podcast Created by Artificial Intelligence, and then wrote Ask AI: "What Was Life Like for John Richman age 12, in 1800 in Hilperton, Wiltshire?" to learn more about a boy's life in 1800 Wiltshire. Then I had another idea.
Can the Artificial Intelligence tools create a memoir, or a letter, to a person's family or relatives? I was quite sure that it can, probably all I have to do is ask. So I tried it out for John Richman (1788-1867).
I had already attached the genealogical sketch for John as a PDF created from 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks - Week 33: #40 John Richman (1788-1867) to Claude 3.7 Sonnet and to Grok 3 to create the poem and song, so I added this prompt to the same Chat: “Please use the attached document to provide a summary of John's life in his own words dated in 1865.”
Here is the result from Anthropic Claude 3.7 Sonnet:
My Life and TimesBy John Richman, Hilperton, WiltshireSeptember 15th, 1865
(photograph of John Richman in the 1860s, courtesy of Richman family members, colorized by MyHeritage photo tools)
As I sit here in my cottage in Hilperton Marsh, the autumn breeze stirring outside my window, I find myself drawn to reflection upon my seventy-seven years on this earth. My granddaughter Rosa has been urging me to set down some account of my life before memories fade like the summer fields to winter brown.
I was born here in Hilperton in the year 1788, when good King George III still had his wits about him, the son of John Richman and my dear mother Mary Parsons. They raised me in this same village, though the place has changed much since those days. My parents worked hard all their lives – my father passed on in 1808 and mother some years before in 1802. I still miss their counsel, even at my advanced age.
My childhood memories are of a simpler Wiltshire, before the great machines came and changed our ways of working. I learned to weave as a boy, a skill that would sustain me through many years. Though I never had schooling proper, I learned what was needed to make my way. I cannot write these words myself – my granddaughter Rosa is setting them down as I speak them – but lack of letters never prevented me from living an honest life.
The most fortunate day of my existence came in 1811, when I married my dear Ann Marshman. She was a Devizes girl, steady as English oak and twice as strong. We made our marks together on the parish register on February 8th, with Thomas Marshman standing witness. Neither of us could write our names, but we signed our futures to each other just the same. Good Reverend Bailes joined us together, and though he's long in his grave now, the union he blessed lasted forty-five years until my Ann was taken from me.
The Lord blessed us with eight children, though He saw fit to call three home before their time. Our Elizabeth came first in 1811, followed by Sarah in 1814. Our John arrived in 1816 – he has his own family now and has made a finer life than his old father managed. Ann followed in 1818, and then our James in 1821, who has always been a comfort to us. We had twins Thomas and Mary born in 1823 – our little Mary only stayed two years before the fever took her. We tried to mend our hearts by naming another daughter Mary in 1825, but the Lord called her home that same year. Thomas grew to manhood but was taken in 1844, still a young fellow of twenty-one. Such was the way of things in those days – many cradles, many graves.
I've turned my hand to whatever honest work I could find to feed these hungry mouths. I began as a weaver, but those skills became less valued as the great factories in Trowbridge and beyond began their workings. I hauled coal for many years – hard work that bent my back but kept food on our table. Later I took up the butcher's knife, and that trade served us well enough. Some hereabouts know me as a farmer too, though I never owned land myself. A working man must adapt or hunger, and I've never been afraid of changing my path when needs must.
We've lived through remarkable times. I remember the fear of Napoleon coming across the Channel, though he never managed it, thank Providence. I've seen machines change the way cloth is made, putting many an honest weaver out of work. I recall when young Queen Victoria took the throne – she was just a slip of a girl then, though she's a grandmother now, I hear. The railways came to Wiltshire during my lifetime, bringing noise and smoke but connecting us to places that seemed impossibly distant in my youth.
My dear Ann left this world in 1856, and the light went out of my days then. She was seventy-two years old and had worked hard every day of her life. I've managed these nine years without her, though not nearly so well as when she was by my side. My daughter Elizabeth was with us many years, and now my granddaughter Rosa keeps an old man company. The census man wrote me down as a pauper when he came in 1861, and I suppose that's true enough in terms of worldly goods, though I count myself rich in family and memories.
I still have my Sunday clothes – my smock from Keevil village and the hat I've kept these fifty years. Rosa laughs to see it, saying no gentleman wears such a style these days, but it serves to keep the sun from my eyes when I make my slow way to St. Michael's for services.
My son James has done well for himself in America, and I hear tell his boy Thomas has taken Richmond as his family name. Names change as people move through the world, I suppose. I never traveled far from Hilperton myself – Bradford-on-Avon seemed distant enough in my younger days, and now I rarely venture beyond our parish boundaries.
What wisdom can an old man of modest means offer to those who might read these words in years to come? Perhaps only this: Work honestly, love your family dearly, and accept both joy and sorrow as part of God's plan. I've known hunger and fullness, grief and happiness, work and rest. Through it all, this small corner of Wiltshire has been home, and I expect to lay my bones here before long, beside my Ann and our little ones in St. Michael's churchyard.
This is the account of John Richman, as told in the seventy-seventh year of his age, in this year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-five.
X (His Mark)
Here is the result from X Grok 3:
A Letter from John Richman to His Children and Grandchildren
Hilperton, Wiltshire, 1865
My Dear Children and Grandchildren,
As I sit here, nearing the twilight of my days at nigh on seventy-seven, my heart bids me put pen to paper to share with you the tale of my life—its joys, its toils, and the lessons woven through it. The world has changed much since I was a lad, and I wish you to know the path I’ve trod, so you might carry a piece of it forward.
I was born in Hilperton, round about 1788, to my father John and mother Mary, God rest their souls. We were a humble lot, eight of us children scrambling about in a world where the land and the loom were all we knew. My earliest days were filled with the rhythm of the countryside—the bleat of sheep, the rustle of wheat, and the clack of my father’s loom. But the world was stirring, even then. Machines were creeping into Wiltshire, stealing the breath from our handlooms, and I saw the old ways begin to fade.
The brightest day of my youth was in 1811, when I wed your mother, Ann Marshman, in Hilperton’s church. We were young, she a few years my elder, and neither of us could sign our names—just an “X” to mark our bond. But oh, what a bond it was! Ann was my strength, her laughter a light in the hardest times. Together, we brought eight of you into this world—Elizabeth, Sarah, John, Ann, James, Thomas, and the two Marys we lost too soon. Each of you was a blessing, though the pain of burying our little ones cut deep. I see you, Elizabeth and James, still here in Hilperton, carrying on with your own families, and my heart swells with pride.
Work was never steady, and that was my greatest trial. In my younger days, I wove cloth like my father before me, my hands steady on the loom. But the factories came, and the looms in our cottages grew silent. I turned to hauling coal, the dust blackening my lungs, and later to butchering, dressing meat to keep bread on our table. By 1841, we lived on Marsh Lane, your mother still weaving, Elizabeth and James at our side, all of us laboring to make ends meet. The Industrial Revolution, they call it now—a grand name for a force that pushed us from one trade to another, always chasing a living. Yet, in that struggle, I learned resilience, and I pray you inherit that strength.
The years have not been kind to us all. Your mother, Ann, passed some years back, and her absence is a wound that never heals. I miss her voice, her touch, her way of making a hard day soft. By the 1851 census, I was a butcher, and we had your nieces, Mary and Rosa, under our roof—a joy to hear their chatter. But now, as I write, I’m an old man, called a pauper by the parish. It stings to be so named, but I’ve no shame in a life of honest work. Rosa, dear girl, keeps me company, though she’s off serving now, leaving me to my thoughts in this quiet cottage.
I’ve seen much in my time—King George’s reign, the wars with Napoleon, and now Queen Victoria’s rule. The world moves faster now, with trains and machines I scarce understand. Yet, I hold to the old ways in my heart. This smock I wear, made in Keevil, and my old top hat, kept from better days, remind me of who I am—a Wiltshire man, rooted in this land. A photograph was taken of me not long ago, an odd thing called an Ambrotype. I sat stiff as a board, my white hair wild, my neckerchief likely red as it ever was. I hope you’ll see it one day and know your old father was here.
My dearest wish is that you carry on with courage. Life will test you, as it did me, with loss and change and labor. But hold fast to each other, as Ann and I did, and let love be your anchor. You, my children, and your children after you, are my legacy. For Elizabeth, Sarah, John and James, and all who come after, especially my wonderful granddaughter Rosa, know that I’ve loved you fiercely, even when the world was unkind.
I’ll soon rest at St. Michael’s, I reckon, where Hilperton’s earth will claim me. Until then, I’m here, watching the willows sway, thinking of you. Live well, my dears, and weave your own stories, strong and true.
With all my love,
Your Father and Grandfather,
John Richman
Yep, the AI tools can do this task also. I would have received similar letters from OpenAI ChatGPT4 and Google Gemini. I could ask the Chatbots to expand on the letter because some points in the reference document were missed in each of them. However, as a test query, I think that these relatively short letters are poignant and would be interesting to his family members, especially the grandchildren in America, and even his 3rd great-grandson.
This format provides a different perspective than a biography, doesn't it? At best, it's historical fiction, but many of the facts are included and it rings true to me. Now if I could only get a Wiltshireman's voice to tell the stories!
I will write more of these memoirs or life stories as told by my ancestor as time goes on. This is great genealogy fun for me!
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