I wrote an AI-assisted ABC Biography of my 3rd great-grandmother Ann (Marshman) Richman in ABC Biography of #41 Ann (Marshman) Richman (1784-1856) of Hilperton, Wiltshire based on my genealogical sketch of her life.
1) Based on the genealogical sketch, I requested Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4 to create a memoir written by Ann (Marshman) Richman talking about her life in 1855. The prompt was: Please write a memoir for Ann (Marshman) Richman, based on the attached genealogical sketch, as she might tell to her grandchildren in 1855.
The AI Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4 memoir (lightly edited for accuracy) is:
My Life's Story
As told by Ann Richman to her grandchildren in 1855
Come sit close, my dear ones, and I'll tell you the story of your old grandmother's life. At seventy-one years, I've seen more changes in this world than you might imagine, and there are things you ought to know about where you come from.
The Early Days in Devizes
I was born in Devizes, not far from here, when old King George was still fighting the Americans across the sea. My father, John Marshman, was a weaver like so many in our family, and my mother was Anne Angel before she married him. I had brothers and sisters—Thomas, Elizabeth, Martha, James, and John—all baptized right here in Hilperton, though I came along later in Devizes.
Those were hard times, children. We didn't have much, but we had each other, and that counted for everything. My father's hands were always stained from the wool, and the sound of his loom was like a heartbeat in our little cottage. Mother taught us girls to help with the spinning when we were barely tall enough to reach the wheel.
When I was just eleven years old, we lost Mother. She was buried right here in Hilperton churchyard in 1795. I remember that day like it was yesterday—the cold earth, the rector's words carried away on the wind, and how Father's shoulders shook though he tried to be strong for us children. After that, we older ones had to grow up fast, helping to keep the household together.
Father did his best with us, but times were getting harder. The war with France meant everything cost more, and work wasn't always steady. When I was about twenty-two, Father moved to Trowbridge looking for better opportunities, but the good Lord called him home in 1806. Suddenly, I was truly on my own in this world.
Meeting Your Grandfather John
But the Lord provides, doesn't He? In 1810, when I was twenty-six—quite the old maid by some people's reckoning—I met your dear grandfather John Richman. He was a good man, honest and hardworking, though like me, he never learned his letters. That didn't matter to us then—we had other ways of being smart.
I'll never forget our wedding day, February 8th, 1811, right here at St. Michael's Church. Curate Bailes married us, and Thomas Richman stood as witness. Your grandfather and I both had to make our marks with an X on the church register, but we spoke our vows with full hearts. I wore my best dress—the only good one I had—and John looked so handsome in his clean shirt and Sunday coat.
Richard Hiscock was there too, bless him, and afterward we had a small celebration. Nothing fancy, mind you, just some bread and cheese and a bit of ale, but it felt like the grandest feast because we were starting our life together.
The Children Come
The good Lord blessed us abundantly with children. Your mother Elizabeth was born first, just eight months after we wed. Sarah came next in 1814, then John in 1816. Each baby was a miracle, and I treasured every moment, even when they kept me up all night with their crying.
Little Ann—named for me—was baptized in March of 1818. Such a sweet child she was, with her father's steady temperament. Then came James in 1821, full of spirit and curiosity about everything. He's the one who's gone to America now, you know. Just this year he sailed away to New York, leaving his dear Hannah and their five little ones here with us until he can send for them. It breaks my heart to see Hannah trying to be brave, waiting for word that he's found work and a place for them all. But I admire his courage—going first to make sure there's a proper home waiting for his family.
Then we had our Thomas in 1823, baptized the same day as little Mary. Twins they were, and what joy they brought us! But the Lord gives and the Lord takes away, and we learned that lesson hard. We lost little Mary when she was barely a year old. The fever took her so quickly—one day she was playing and laughing, the next she was in my arms, burning hot and struggling to breathe.
We tried again for Mary's sake, naming another daughter Mary in 1825, but she lived only two months. Twice we buried a Mary, and twice I thought my heart would break entirely. Your grandfather held me while I wept, and somehow we found the strength to carry on.
And then we lost our Thomas too, in 1844. Twenty-one years old he was, just starting his life as a man. Sometimes I still expect to see him walking through that door, ready for his supper. But children, that's the way of this world—we hold our loved ones close while we can, and we trust that we'll see them again in the sweet by-and-by.
The Work of Our Hands
Your grandfather has worked many jobs to keep us fed and sheltered. He's hauled coal, which left him black as soot at the end of each day, and now he's got steady work as a butcher. Hard work, all of it, but honest work, and that's what matters.
I've kept busy with my weaving, just like my father before me. These old hands have woven thousands of yards of cloth over the years—wool for warm coats, linen for Sunday shirts, cotton for the babies' swaddling clothes. It's good work, and I'm proud that even at my age, I can still earn a bit for the household.
We've always made our home here in Hilperton Marsh, on Marsh Lane. It's not much to look at—two rooms downstairs, a loft above where the children slept—but it's been filled with love and laughter. Right now, it's fuller than ever, with James's Hannah and her children staying with us while they wait for word from America. The walls have heard bedtime prayers and birthday songs, Christmas carols and lullabies, arguments and apologies, and all the sounds that make a house a home. These days, there are even more little voices adding to the chorus.
The World Changes Around Us
Children, I've seen this world change in ways you can barely imagine. When I was young, we heard about the great battles with Napoleon—Trafalgar and Waterloo and all the rest. Men from our village went off to fight, and some never came home. The victory bells rang out when Wellington finally beat the French, but for the families who lost their boys, those bells sounded hollow.
I've watched the mail coaches give way to the railway trains, though they haven't reached our little village yet. I've seen gas lamps come to the bigger towns, and heard talk of factories with machines that can do the work of twenty weavers. It frightens me sometimes, thinking what kind of world you children will inherit.
But some things never change—the need for honest work, for family, for neighbors helping neighbors. When Sarah married her James Thompson and moved to Bath, our hearts were heavy, but we knew she'd found a good man. When our John married his Maria right here in the church, it felt like the family circle was growing stronger, not breaking apart.
My Greatest Joys
You want to know what makes an old woman happiest? It's moments like this one—having my grandchildren gathered close, seeing your bright faces, knowing that something of me and your grandfather will live on in you.
I love watching eight-year-old Mary help her mother Elizabeth with the weaving, her little fingers already learning to feel the tension in the thread. And little Rosa, just three years old but already chattering away—she reminds me so much of her grandfather when he gets excited about something.
I think about James across the ocean in Connecticut, working hard to build a new life for his family. I pray every night that he stays safe and that soon he'll send word for Hannah and the children to join him. Until then, we do what families do—we take care of our own. Hannah helps with the household work, and her children bring such life to this old house. Sometimes I watch her reading James's letters over and over, and I remember how it felt to be a young wife, missing her husband.
What I Want You to Remember
My dear ones, when I'm gone to rest beside your grandfather someday, I want you to remember these things:
Family is everything. We may not have much in the way of worldly goods, but we have each other, and that's worth more than all the gold in the Bank of England.
Hard work is nothing to be ashamed of. Whether you're weaving cloth or hauling coal or tending sheep, if you do it honestly and do it well, you can hold your head high.
This village, this countryside—it's in your blood. The fields where the sheep graze, the church where your parents were baptized and married, the old stones that have watched over our people for hundreds of years—all of this is part of who you are.
Be kind to one another. Life is short and full of sorrows enough without us adding to them. When someone needs help, help them. When someone needs forgiveness, forgive them. When someone needs love, love them.
And remember that every one of you carries the hopes and dreams of all who came before—my parents John and Anne, your grandfather and me, all the Marshmans and Richmans who worked and loved and prayed in this place. You are the answers to their prayers, the future they worked toward but never saw.
As I Look Forward
Now, at seventy-one, I don't know how many more stories I'll be able to tell you. My hands are stiffer now, and the cold settles into my bones each winter a little deeper. But I'm not afraid. I've lived a full life, loved deeply, worked hard, and raised good children who've given me the joy of grandchildren.
When my time comes, I'll rest easy knowing that the thread of our family continues, woven into the great tapestry of this place we call home. And perhaps, if the good Lord wills it, someday you'll sit with your own grandchildren and tell them the story of old Ann Richman, who came from Devizes and made her life in Hilperton, who loved well and worked hard and never forgot where she came from.
Now then, who wants to help Grandmother with the evening meal? These old stories work up quite an appetite!
As remembered and cherished by her loving grandchildren, 1855
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Ann (Marshman) Richman died 31 July 1856 at age 72 and was buried in the Hilperton churchyard. Her husband, John Richman died in 1867 in Hilperton. Hannah (Rich) Richman had another child, (Emma Richman) on 12 May 1856, and Hannah and her five children emigrated to America on 14 November 1856 to reunite with James Richman.
2) I think that these relatively short memoirs are poignant and would be interesting to his family members, especially to her descendants, and even to her 3rd great-grandchildren.
This format provides a different perspective than a biography, doesn't it? It is historical fiction, but many of the historical facts from the genealogical sketch are included and it rings true to me.
I will write more of these memoirs or life memories as told by my ancestors as time goes on. This is great genealogy fun for me!
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