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A NARRAGANSETT ELOPEMENT

Four miles north of Narragansett Pier lies the old South Ferry, from whence for over a century ran ferry-boats to a landing on Conanicut Island. About a mile farther north there stands on Boston Neck an ancient willow-shaded, gambrel-roofed, weather-beaten house which in the latter part of the eighteenth century was the scene of a sadly romantic event. It was built by Rowland Robinson in the first half of the century--in 1746--and was originally one hundred and ten feet long, as the stone foundations still show. The kitchen and negro quarters have been demolished, and the present structure has a front of sixty feet. The rooms within are models of the simple style of architecture of that day. The staircase is specially beautiful with its gracefully turned balusters and curious drop ornaments, and its deep-worn steps of bass-wood. The walls of all the rooms are wainscoted in a substantial manner, and the fireplaces are ornamented with blue and white Dutch tiles. The heavy timbers and rafters--all cut on the place--have not sagged an inch with the weight of years. Over the fireplace in the dining-room is a panel bearing a smoke-darkened painting which represents a deer-hunt that occurred on the Robinson place while the house was being built. The riders in this picture appear to be standing in their stirrups instead of sitting on their saddles. The great attic in which the slaves are said to have slept contains now a picturesque litter of old sea-chests, spinning-wheels, clock-reels, wool-cards, flax-brakes, yarn-winders, saddles, and pillions; and in the beams of the roof are great iron hooks to which--it is whispered--the slaves of olden times were tied when they received their floggings. They are with much more probability the loom-hooks which were used by weavers when weaving cloth on an old hand-loom. The handsome great west room is known as the Lafayette Chamber, it having been occupied for some weeks by the Marquis de Lafayette during the Revolutionary War; and on panes of glass, still whole after a century's use, are the names of French officers, scratched on with the writers' diamond rings.

The house abounds in cupboards--tall, narrow cupboards high up over the chimney, low, broad cupboards under the window-seats, medicine cupboards and pot cupboards, triangular corner cupboards, and, in the parlor, one beautifully proportioned apse-shaped china-cupboard which is ornamented with carved "sunbursts" and scalloped and serrated shelves, and is closed with glass doors to show the treasures and beauties within. But in "Unfortunate Hannah's" chamber is the most famous cupboard of all, for in that narrow and shallow retreat a beautiful daughter of Rowland Robinson hid her lover when she heard the approaching footsteps of her irascible father on the staircase leading to her room.

Rowland Robinson was a typical Narragansett planter--wealthy, proud, and imperious. Tall and portly, ruddy of face, he showed in his dress and carriage his great wealth and high position. A coat of fine dark cloth or velvet with silver buttons was worn over a long yellow waistcoat with great pockets and flaps; violet or brown velvet knee-breeches with handsome top-boots, or silk stockings with buckled shoes; lace-frilled shirts; a great beaver cocked hat looped up with cords over his powdered hair--this attire gave him a comely and elegant presence. His character may be given in a few words by quoting the wife of Hon. William Hunter, minister to Brazil. She wrote in her diary sixty years ago her personal recollection of him. "He was of violent passions, which was characteristic of the Robinsons, but of benevolent, noble nature." Many stories are told of his impetuous generosity and kindly impulsiveness, none being more characteristic than his action when his first cargo of slaves came from the Guinea coast. Slave-dealing was such a universal practice at that date among wealthy residents of Narragansett and Newport that it was a commonplace business enterprise for Rowland Robinson, when he was building his new house, to send a ship to Africa for a cargo of negroes, intending to keep the most promising ones for his own household and farm servants, and to sell the remainder. But when the ship landed at South Ferry, and the forlorn, wretched, feeble men and women disembarked, he burst into tears and vowed that not one should be sold. He kept them all in his own household, where they were always kindly treated. He never again sent a vessel to Africa to engage in the slave-trade, though one negro of royal birth--Queen Abigail--was so happy in her Narragansett home, that with Rowland Robinson's consent and his liberal assistance she returned to her home in Africa, found her son--the negro prince--and brought him to America, where he became Mr. Robinson's faithful body-servant.

The wealthy planter had other sources of income than slave-trading. He owned great ships that engaged in general commerce. He had an immense dairy and made fine Rhode Island cheese from the milk of his beautiful "blanket-cows." It was his ambition to have one hundred of these lovely black-and-white animals, but it is a matter of tradition that, while he could keep ninety-nine readily enough, when he bought or raised the hundredth cow, one of the ninety-nine sickened and died, or was lost through accident, and thus the number still fell short. Great quantities of grain and hay did he also raise on his fertile farm; and besides the grain and cheese that he shipped to the West Indies he also sold to the wealthy colonists many Narragansett pacers--swift horses of the first distinctively American breed. These pacers all came from one sire, "Old Snip," who it is said was of Andalusian birth and was found swimming in the ocean off the coast of Africa, was hauled on board a trading-ship and was carried to Narragansett, where he was allowed to run wild on the Point Judith tract. These sure-footed pacers had a peculiar gait; they did not sway their rider from side to side, nor jolt him up and down, but permitted him to sit quietly, and thus endure without fatigue a long journey. In those carriageless days, when nearly all travel was by saddle and pillion, the broad-backed, easy-going Narragansett pacers were in such demand that they brought high prices and proved a good source of income.

Three children were born to the builder of this beautiful colonial home: William Robinson, who died in Newport in 1804, in a house on the corner of Broadway and Mann Avenue, and two daughters, Mary and Hannah. Gay festivities had these young people in the hospitable great house, especially when a demure young Quaker cousin was sent to them to live for awhile in order to break up a romantic love-affair of hers with a young French officer. Count Rochambeau was a guest at her father's house, and too many opportunities for love-making were found when the young Frenchman came to report to his commanding officer.

Gayest and loveliest of all the beauties throughout Narragansett was fair Hannah Robinson--Unfortunate Hannah. Much testimony of her extraordinary beauty has descended to us, one story being of her meeting with Crazy Harry Babcock, that reckless dare-devil of a soldier whose feats of valor by land and sea were known all over Europe as well as in America. This extraordinary man, during a visit to England, was invited to the palace and introduced to the royal family. When the queen extended her hand to him to be kissed, he sprang briskly from his knees, exclaiming: "May it please your majesty, in my country, when we salute a beautiful woman we kiss her lips, not her hand," and with the words he seized the astonished queen by the shoulders and impressed on her lips a rousing smack. Upon his return to America he went to Narragansett for the avowed purpose of "seeing the prettiest woman in Rhode Island." As he entered the parlor of Rowland Robinson's house fair Hannah rose to meet him, and the crazy colonel, as she extended her hand to greet him, dropped on his knee with a look of intense admiration, saying, in the stilted words of the times: "Pray permit one who has kissed unrebuked the lips of the proudest queen on earth to press for a moment the hand of an angel from heaven!"

The great wealth and luxurious manner of living of the opulent Narragansett planters was shown in no way more plainly than in the manner in which they educated their children. They spared no pains nor expense to obtain the best masters and teachers. Rowland Robinson sent his daughter to Newport to receive instruction from Madame Osborne, whose fame as a teacher was known throughout America, and whose "Memoirs" form the dullest book in the English language. At this school Hannah met the handsome lover who was to have such an influence over her life. Pierre Simond, or Peter Simons as was most unromantically Anglicized his name, was a scion of a French Huguenot family, who taught music and French in Madame Osborne's school. From the moment the young couple met they were lovers. Both knew, however, how hopeless it was to think of obtaining Mr. Robinson's consent to a marriage which would appear to him so unequal; they therefore kept their love a secret.

As the time approached for Hannah's return to her home in Narragansett, the lovers were in despair at the thought of separation, for they knew their unhappiness could not be mitigated even by the exchange of love-letters. At this juncture the young music-teacher managed to obtain a position as private tutor in the family of Colonel Gardiner, who lived only two miles from Hannah's home and who was her uncle.

It can easily be divined that when once in Narragansett the happy lovers found many opportunities of meeting, which were frequently brought about by the romantic and easy-going colonel, and were not hindered by Hannah's mother when she discovered her daughter's love-affair. Though Mrs. Robinson would not give her approval she tacitly gave her aid by helping to conceal the lovers' meetings from Rowland Robinson; and it was with her knowledge that the lover came to Hannah's chamber, where he often had to be concealed in the friendly cupboard.

When Peter Simons could not enter the Robinson house he stood by his true-love's window under a great lilac-bush, which is still growing, sturdy and unbroken under the weight of a century of years. In the concealing shadow of the lilac-bush words of love might be whispered to the fair girl who leaned from the window, or letters might be exchanged with comparative safety.

But true love ran no smoother in the eighteenth century than in the nineteenth, and when one night a fair hand dropped a tender billet into the gloom of the lilac-bush, old Rowland Robinson chanced to open the door of his house and he saw the white messenger descend. Speechless with suspicion and rage he rushed to the lilac-bush and thrust his buckthorn stick into it with vigorous blows until a man ran out into the darkness, whom the irate father in the second's glimpse recognized as the "wretched French dancing-master" who taught his nephews.

Though Rowland Robinson was firm in his determination and constant in his action to prevent the lovers from meeting, Hannah--the true daughter of her father--was equally determined not to give up her sweetheart; and as the Narragansett neighbors, like the rest of the world, "dearly loved a lover," they gladly assisted the romance by exchanging letters and arranging meetings for the lovers. Months of harassing suspicions and angry words at home, and frightened meetings with her lover away from home, told so upon Hannah's health that her mother finally permitted to be carried into execution a long-planned scheme of elopement. It was finally arranged through the agency and assistance of a young friend of Hannah's--Miss Belden--and the ever sentimental colonel-uncle.

Invitations for a great ball had been sent out all over Narragansett, and to many in Boston, Providence, and Newport. It was to be given by Mrs. Updike, Hannah's aunt. She lived eight miles north of Rowland Robinson's home, in the old historic house which is still standing and is now known as Cocumcussuc. A portion of it was the first house or fort built by the English in Narragansett in the year 1636. Though Hannah's father was unwilling to allow his daughter out of his sight, he at last consented that both Hannah and Mary should go to their aunt's ball. They set out on horseback, accompanied by faithful Prince, the son of Queen Abigail, and were met, as had been arranged, in the thick woods on the top of Ridge Hill, by Mr. Simons with a closed carriage. Into this conveyance Hannah entered with her lover, in spite of her sister's tears and Prince's frantic appeals, and rode off to Providence, where the eloping couple were married.

When the news of Hannah's disobedience came to the knowledge of Rowland Robinson, his rage and disgust knew no bounds. He forbade his family ever to communicate with Hannah again; and knowing well that she must have been assisted in carrying out her plans to elope, he offered a large reward to anyone who would make known to him the names of the persons who had aided her escape.

It would seem that the fair bride should be called Fortunate Hannah, since she managed to evade her father's vigilance and wed her ardent French lover, but alas! Peter Simons, like many another hero of an elopement, did not prove worthy of the great sacrifice. Disappointed through the implacable anger of Rowland Robinson in the hope of obtaining any of his wealth, the unprincipled husband soon neglected his lovely wife and at last deserted her for days and weeks. Broken-hearted, alone, and poor, the unfortunate girl began to fail rapidly in health, and spent many weary, lonely days in her wretched home in Providence, having for her only companion her dog Marcus, that had been secretly sent to her by her mother from her Narragansett home.

In the meantime her sister, Mary Robinson, had died of consumption; and her mother, worn out by grief, had completely failed in health. Her father, though outwardly stern and unforgiving, was evidently exceedingly unhappy at the alarming news of his daughter's state of health; and at last, of his own accord, sent to live with her and care for her the negro maid who had attended her in her happy girlhood. He also conveyed to her the message that she might come home and would be warmly welcomed, provided she would reveal to him the names of those who assisted in her elopement. Her compliance with this condition was, he said, absolutely imperative.

On receiving this message Hannah wrote in answer, with trembling hand, a most affectionate letter, stating firmly that the sentiments of honor which he himself had both taught and transmitted to her forbade her betraying the confidence of those who had aided her and offended him. Mr. Robinson eagerly opened the letter, but his face changed when he read her decision, and he tossed the sheet to her mother with the contemptuous remark, "Then let the foolish thing die where she is!"

As weeks passed the accounts of Hannah's health grew more alarming still, and it was evident that a fierce struggle between love and pride was taking place in the unhappy father's breast; one day he rose suddenly from the dinner-table, jumped upon his horse, and saying to his wife that he should be away from home for a day or two, started on the thirty-five-mile ride to Providence. He remained overnight at the Updike farm and reached his daughter's house in Providence at noon. Without dismounting he rapped on the door with his riding-whip. Full of joy at the sight of her old master and at the thought of the happy reconciliation, the negro maid hastened to the door with the entreaty that the welcome visitor would come at once to the poor invalid's chamber. "Ask your mistress," said Rowland Robinson, "whether she is now ready to comply with her father's request to know the names of her fellow-conspirators, and say that if she is, he will come in, but on no other conditions." Poor Hannah, torn with a thousand emotions, still clung to her decision not to betray her friends, and her father, without another word, rode away to the Updike farm. For several weeks the stubborn and unhappy father, unable to live without news of his sick daughter, rode at intervals of two or three days from Narragansett to Providence, knocked at Hannah's door, asked for her health, and left without another word.

At last, her friends who had helped in her elopement, hearing of her father's firm decision, which barred all reconciliation, insisted upon her revealing to him their names and the true story; and when Rowland Robinson next rode up to his daughter's door he received the welcome message that she would see him and tell him all. When he entered that barren chamber all thought of discovering her closely guarded secret fled at once from his thoughts as he gazed at the wasted form of the once beautiful girl. He knelt by her bedside and wept aloud in anguish and remorse. As soon as he recovered his composure he at once rode to his home, from whence he despatched to Providence in a fast-sailing sloop four of his strongest and trustiest negro men, and a hand-litter for the sick, which was, at that time of rough roads and few carriages, an indispensable article in every well-appointed Narragansett household. Dusty, travel-stained, and tired, without waiting for a night's rest he at once jumped upon a fresh horse and, attended by Prince, who was mounted and led a horse for Hannah's maid, poor Rowland Robinson started for the last time to ride to his sick daughter's door.

Upon a lovely morning in June, the four strong negroes, bearing the litter upon which lay the sick girl, with her father and faithful Prince riding on either side, slowly wended their way to poor Hannah's early home. Those who know the beauty of sunny Narragansett in early June, when the roads are everywhere overhung with the graceful, sweet-scented blossoms of slender locust-trees, when the roadsides are one luxuriant, blooming garden of lovely wild flowers, and the fields are sweet with rich clover, can feel the strong and painful contrast which the sad figure of the dying girl must have formed to the glowing life around.

When the spot was reached on Ridge Hill where Hannah had seen for the last time her sister Mary, Prince saw that she covered her face with her hands and cried. One other pathetic incident is told by "Shepherd Tom" of the homeward journey. Though on every side lay a glory of spring flowers, poor Hannah, with thoughts that no one can fathom, asked her father to pick for her and lay on her breast a withered sprig of the pale blossom called life-everlasting, which had bloomed and died the year before.

At last the painful journey was ended; of the sad meeting between mother and daughter, and of the sorrowful faces of the faithful servants, it is needless to write in detail.

That night a whip-poor-will--the bird believed throughout Narragansett to be the harbinger of death--perched on the lilac-bush under the window of the chamber where once again slept Unfortunate Hannah; and throughout the long dark hours sounded gloomily in the father's ears the sad, ominous cry of "Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!" The following day poor Hannah died.

Again did four strong men bear on their shoulders the form of the once beautiful girl, as they passed under the branches of the sweet-scented lilac to the grave near the old house where still is shown the headstone that marks the last resting-place of Unfortunate Hannah Robinson.

NARRAGANSETT WEAVERS

During the first years of this century there could be found in every English town, village, and hamlet many hand-looms and many weavers who on these looms wove for their neighbors and for small cloth-jobbers strong homespun woollen stuffs, rag-carpets, woollen sheets, cotton and wool bed-spreads, flannels, coarse linen and tow, heavy cotton cloth and fine table and bed linen. These hand-looms lingered in use till about 1840. So universal was then the extinction of hand-weaving through the vast growth of power-loom manufacture and of spinning by steam-spindle, and so sudden and complete the destruction and vanishing of all the old-time implements and machines, that when, ten years ago, under the stimulus of Ruskin's fiery appeal for the revivifying of hand-spinning and hand-weaving, these household arts were again started in Westmoreland, but a single linen-loom could be found for the work.

In the American colonies hand-weaving was also a universal industrial art. In no part of the country has the industry lingered longer than in old Narragansett. In many old New England towns single hand-looms can be found, some in running order, and with owners capable of running them to make rag-carpets. Others are still standing, cobwebbed and dusty, in attic lofts, lean-to chambers, woodsheds, or barns, with no one to set the piece or fill the shuttles. In Narragansett I know a score of old looms in good running order, though, save in one instance, set only for weaving rag-carpets; in many cases the owners, who do not make weaving a trade, will not "start them up" for weaving less than a hundred yards of carpeting. This is a long strip for a room in a cottage or farm-house, so neighbors frequently join together in ordering these carpets, and in company send vast rolls of the filling, which is made of inch-wide strips of cloth of all colors and materials sewed in long strips. Within a few years these old hand-looms have been used for weaving rag-porti?res made of silk strips.

He was apprenticed, an orphan, at seven years of age to a diaper-weaver, and served till he was of age, with one term only of schooling; but he was ambitious and read eagerly instructive books, especially on weaving and kindred arts. He married the daughter of an Irish weaver, and soon had journeymen and apprentices, whom he taught to sing as they wove; and when they did not sing the men whistled the airs, and with singing and whistling the work speeded.

This singing at the loom was not a peculiarity of Martin Read's. We know the exclamation of Falstaff: "I would I were a weaver, I could sing Psalms and all manner of songs." Nares says weavers were generally good singers, and that as they sat at their work they practised part-singing. Many of the weavers in Queen Elizabeth's day were Flemish Calvinists and therefore given to psalm-singing, hence Falstaff's reference.

One weaver, named James Maxwell, wrote some "Weaver's Meditations" in rhyme in 1756. The frontispiece of his book--his portrait at his loom--is thus inscribed:

"Lo, how 'twixt heaven and earth I swing, And whilst the shuttle swiftly flies, With cheerful heart I work and sing, And envy none beneath the skies."

Martin Read reared his family well, and in the Episcopal Church. His son, Rev. Dr. Read, preached for many years at Christ's Church in Poughkeepsie. He wove coverlets, blankets, broadcloth, flannel, worsted, linen, tow-cloth, and calamanco. This last was a glossy woollen twilled fabric, sometimes woven in a pattern in the warp. James Fontaine, a Huguenot weaver, says it was made of a fine double-twisted worsted. It was much used for the nightgowns and banians worn by substantial citizens of the day, and for women's winter-gowns.

Other goods made by Weaver Read were duroy, durant, and crocus, a coarse tow-stuff for servants' wear. This word, crocus, still may be heard in Virginia, and perhaps elsewhere in the South, where it was more and longer used than in Narragansett.

Martin Read lived near the old church he so dearly loved, and a sightly spot it was for a home. Still standing beside the church foundation, the site where the church first stood, is the deserted house in which Martin Read lived and wove and whistled and sung. On the road near his home lives to-day the last of the old-time weavers, one who can weave woollen and linen stuffs. Hand-weaving is not with him an accidental industrial makeshift, but his every-day occupation and means of livelihood. He learned to weave from one of Martin Read's apprentices.

His low, weather-beaten house, set in a close-walled garden, is one of the most picturesque in old Narragansett. We entered from a glory of midsummer sunlight into a cool, pale-green light which penetrated the rooms through the heavy shadows of the rugged old cedar-trees that overhung the roof and the ancient lilacs that pressed close to the windows.

There has ever been associated in my mind with the trade of weaving the pale and sickly appearance and bearing of many English mill weavers; and, though ever of country life, this Yankee weaver was no exception to the rule. His skin, of extreme delicacy, was pale, yet suffused at times with that semi-transparent flush which is seldom seen save on those whose life is wholly indoors. His hair and beard were long and white, and had evidently been light-brown before they were white; his bright blue eyes looked pleasantly and intelligently out from the wisps of white hair. His visible attire was a clean, but collarless, white shirt and a pair of blue overalls; his feet were bare. We mounted with him the narrow enclosed staircase to the loom-loft.

There was such a flood of color out of doors, the fields and trees were so green, the tangle of larkspurs in the garden was so blue, the sunbeams so radiant, that the attic seemed but a dull abiding-place for a summer's day; but as the eye grew accustomed to the dimmer light and learned to avoid the piercing arrows of sunshine that burned in through the heart-shaped holes in the shutters and made every mote of wavering dust in their path a point of unbearable glitter, then the attic seemed quiet and peaceful, and its shadows were grateful; and even the bang, bang of the loom when it was started up was not a garish rattle. Heaps of gay woollen yarns lay under the eaves, and a roll or two of rag-carpeting and strips of worn-out bed-coverlets of various patterns were hung on the beams or piled in heaps. There were vast boxes of cotton twine; and many yarn-beams ready wound, and swifts and quilling-wheels and "scarnes," many in number, thrust under the garret eaves. Among the discarded wool-wheels and flax-wheels heaped high in the corner--obsolete before their fellow, the hand-loom--I did not peer deep. Though neglected, they are jealously treasured, for "that was grandma's foot-wheel," and "Aunt Eunice used that wool-wheel sixty-two year," showed that what seemed to me useless lumber was haloed with association and tradition. I have never seen or felt elsewhere any such picture, any such atmosphere of an industrial life that is forever past, as that old-time weaving. The dim half-light of the loom-room and the darker garret beyond; the ancient chairs that thrust out a broken arm, and tables that put forth a claw-foot from the shadows; the low buzzing of hornets that fluttered against the upper skylight or hung in dull clusters on the window-frame--hornets so dull, so feeble, so innocuous in their helplessness that they seemed the ancients of their day; the eerie clamor of swallows in the chimney; the pungent aroma of "dry, forgotten herbs," that swayed in the summer wind from every rafter; and the weaver, pale and silent, laboriously weaving his slow-growing web with a patience of past ages of workers, a patience so foreign to our present high-pressure and double-speed rates that he seemed a century old, the very spirit of colonial, nay, of mediaeval days.

There was a monotonous yet well-controlled precision in this weaver's work that was most soothing, and that seems to be a characteristic influence of the homespun industries. It was felt by Wordsworth and voiced in his sonnet:

"Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend Now that the cottage spinning-wheel is mute."

This precision in work is that of the skilled hand and thinking brain controlling the machine, not the vast power of steam relentlessly crowding the overworked body and dulled brain.

"Our fathers have lien full oft upon straw pallets or rough mats, covered onlie with a sheet under coverlets made of dagswain or hap-harlots, and a good round log under their heads instead of a bolster."

Yet here have been Narragansett weavers weaving hap-harlots, and sleeping under hap-harlots, and speaking of hap-harlots as though three centuries ago were as yesterday. I presume they have made dagswains also, since there still exists bills of Narragansett shepherds for dagging sheep.

The old-time cotton and wool bed-spreads or coverlets, seen of old on every four-post bedstead, he now sells for porti?res and bathroom rugs, as well as for bed and couch spreads. They are woven in simple geometric patterns, just as in the times of the ancient Britons, when the wools of the weft were dyed with woad and broom. The patterns are nearly all over a century old. He has a worn pattern-book with bewildering rules for setting the heddles for over fifty designs. Quaint of name are the patterns: "chariot-wheels and church-windows," is a bold, large design; "church-steps," a simpler one; "bachelors' fancy," "devil's fancy," "five doves in a row," "shooting-star," "rising sun," "rail fence," "green veils," offer little in their designs to give reason for their names. "Whig rose," "Perry's Victory," and "Lady Washington's fancy," show an historical influence in naming. "Orange-peel" is simply a series of oblong hexagons honeycombed together. "All summer and all winter" was similar. "Bricks and blocks" is evenly checkered. "Capus diaper" is more a complicated design for weaving damask linen, taking five harnesses. Floral names are common, such as "Dutch tulip," "rose in bloom," "pansies in the wilderness," "five snow-balls," etc.

The loom on which this Narragansett weaver works might be six centuries old. You may see precisely similar ones pictured by Hogarth in the middle of the eighteenth century; and an older one still in the Campanile at Florence, by Giotto, in 1334.

These excerpts from a letter of Weaver Rose's give some pleasant weaver's lore, and are in the lucid, simple, and quaint English to be expected of a man who still weaves and talks of hap-harlots:

"My grandfather and grandmother Robert and Mary Northrup lived at what is now called Stuart Vale but then known as the Fish Pond, in a little hamlet of four houses, only one of which, my grandfather's, is now standing. He owned a shore and fished in the spring and wove some at home and went out amongst the larger farmers working at his trade of weaving, whilst his wife carried on the weaving at home and had a number of apprentices. He learned his trade of weaving of Martin Read, the deacon of St. Paul's Church, who lived a few rods from the church. He died in 1822, his wife lived till 1848. The spool I gave you was made by Langworthy Pierce, a veteran of the Revolution. It has the initials of his name. I send you now one of his shuttles used for weaving broadcloth, and a square of linen I have woven for you of a pattern of five harnesses called Browbey. The looms here in Narragansett were all made by local carpenters. Stephen Northrup made looms, and Freeborn Church made looms and spinning wheels. I have 2 of his make. Friend Earle! more money can be made by weaving than farming. I have wove 30 yards of rag carpet in one day at 10 cents a yard; or 23 cents a yard when I found the warp. There was a man here by the name of Eber Sherman, he called himself Slippery Eber. He died in the war of 1812; his widow worked at spinning for 25 cents per day and supported herself and one son well on that wage. One dollar and a half per week was regular wage for a woman's work. It took a woman one week to weave a coverlet of 3 yards long and 2-1/2 yards wide. Mahala Douglas went out to work at one dollar and a half per week making butter and cheese, milking seven cows every week day and nine on Sunday. She died leaving a large Estate, several thousand dollars, which her Legatees had no trouble in spending in six weeks. My grandfather was one of eight children. One brother was Rev. William Northrup; Thurston Northrup, another brother, was a school-teacher and a weaver of coverlets and cloth. John Northrup was called Weaver John. He was a coverlet weaver. John Congdon was a maker of Weavers' reeds or slays. I have 70 or 80 of his make in my house. I have a reed that my grandfather Northrup had made when he went to the Island of Rhode Island weaving Broadcloth. He received 50 cents per day pay. Good Cream Cheese was 3 cents a pound at the same time of the Embargo in the war of 1812. I have an Eight and Twenty slay with 29 Beer that cost one dollar, made by John Congdon 70 years ago, as good as when made. He lived in North Kingston."

The word slay or sley, meaning a weavers' reed, has not been used commonly in England for many years, and is contemporary with hap-harlot. A beer was a counting-off of forty warp-threads.

It may be seen by this letter how many classes of workmen were kept busily employed by these homespun industries; makers of looms, wheels, reeds, scarnes, raddles, temples, swifts, niddy-noddys, spools, and shuttles; and turners of warp-beams and cloth-beams. The proper shaping of a shuttle was as important as the shaping of a boat's hull. When the shuttle was carefully whittled out, smoothed off with glass, lightly shod with steel, and marked by burnt-in letters with the maker's initials, it was a proper piece of work, one for a craftsman to be distinctly proud of. Spools could be turned on a lathe but were marked by hand. No wonder our weaver loved his old worn-out rubbish; every piece had been made and used by his kinsfolk and neighbors, who had put into every spool, shuttle, and loom good, faithful hand-work; and, like the cloths he wove, they wore well.

I have dwelt somewhat at length on the sturdy fighting ancestry of this weaver, with a distinct sense of pleasure at the quality of his forebears. He is, in the best sense, a pure American, with not a drop of admixture of the blood from recent immigrations. Some of his ancestors were those who made the original Petaquamscut purchase from the Indians, and here he lives on the very land they purchased. It is such examples as this that give dignity to New England rural life, give us a sense of not being offensively new. In my genealogical researches in England I have not found such cases nearly as common as in New England. Surprise and even annoyance is shown in England at your expectation and hope to find descendants of the original owners occupying farm-houses and manors two hundred years old.

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