The Melting Pot

Following on from the recent article about Charles Wilkins, here is a transcription of an article written by him for an issue of his publication ‘The Red Dragon’, which appeared 140 years ago this month.

It is a little over one hundred years ago, in May, 1782, when a messenger came from Wales into the neighbourhood of Stourbridge with great news. One Mr. Bacon had started an ironworks near a village called Merthyr, and he wanted a lot of men. There was a good deal of gossip caused by this. A recruiting sergeant coming into an English village to enlist lads for glory could not have made a greater ferment. Merthyr was “far down in Wales,” and Wales to many seemed as distant as America. “You have to go,” said the messenger, “to Gloucester in a boat, and then trust to the channel and work round as far as Cardiff, and then it is a couple of days’ journey up the mountains.”

There was, I repeat, a good deal of ferment, and no little hesitation, but at last the requisite number of hands was got, and away they went, bidding sorrowful farewells—many of them knowing  it may be for years or it may be forever.” It would not do, they thought, to take their household gods with them, but the pets—Bill’s dog, and Tom’s cat—could not be left behind. The Lees carried between them a wicker cage in which was a shining blackbird. Let us look at them a moment, for they were the pioneers of our old English residents, the Homfrays, Hemuses, Lees, Browns, Turleys, Wilds, Millwards, and they are worthy of more than a passing notice. Powerful men, all of them, trained to labour from youth, and full of hope and of determination. They are going as settlers amongst strange people, who speak a different language, and who may resent the incoming of strangers. Well, let them. The strangers are not only strong, but God-fearing men, and they take sturdily to the boat which tediously carries them down to Worcester.

So tedious was the journey that when Worcester was reached one or two of the men wanted to go back home again, but Homfray, the leader, would not hear of it, and his hand being hard, and his voice strong, they gave in. Gloucester was at length reached, and at that place a barge was hired and down the Severn they went, hugging the coast wherever they could. But somehow or other when night came on the barge drifted out into mid channel, and to their horror on came a storm.

Now everyone wished himself back at the village of Stewpovey, where most of them came from! How fiercely they looked at Homfray, who had led them into this trouble. Presently, however, the storm abated, and they found themselves under Penarth Head, and there was not much difficulty after that in landing at Cardiff. Very small, very insignificant was Cardiff then; a few streets clustering about the Castle, and only a little life there when the boat came once a week from Bristol. At Cardiff, waggons were hired and up the wayfarers toiled through the valley, reaching Merthyr at last.

One of the old pioneers, pipe in mouth and grandson on knee, used in his declining days to tell the wondering listeners his experience of the voyage, and the journey through Merthyr to Cyfarthfa. It was a small place, he said, was Merthyr; just a village like; small houses, fields, and gardens on one side or the other. The houses were thatched, and as the strangers rode by in their waggons their heads were on a level with the eaves. The old inhabitants used to think a two-storied house extravagance. What was the use of mounting upstairs to go to bed?

On reaching Merthyr the wanderers lodged where they could. The “Star” was the principal inn, the “Crown” was a thatched house. At the “Boot,” Ben Brown, being short of funds, sold his dog for ninepence. It was like parting with his own flesh and blood! Then with the morning they were up, and in consultation with Bacon, who had contracted with Homfray to’ build a forge. The work was done as quickly as possible, for the American war was raging, and guns were needed. In due time the forge was got ready. Every man, woman, and child from the village came up to the opening. Shonny Cwmglo was there with his wonderful harp. Shonny could play every tune, although he had never learned a note, and he played away till he was a hundred, or ever the silver strings were loosed, and, his feeble hands falling from the strings, he laid him down and died. The boys and girls danced, and the men and women raised their voices in gladness when the forge was started.

A species of delirium seized upon everybody, and the harper played like the fiddler of Prague, increasing the madness. Homfray seizing Hemus’s new hat, a wonderful thing, threw it under the hammer, and his own followed like magic. Ale houses did a great trade that day and night. Robert Peel’s policemen and “Bruce” were all in the far-off future at that time. Many of the pioneers died at a brave old age, long before- policemen came into existence.

For several years Bacon and the Homfrays worked well together, but one day there was a falling out, and a fight, and the friendship was never renewed on the old lines. Homfray did not care to go back again with the Browns and the Wilds, who were now getting settled. Some of them had fallen in love with the dark-eyed daughters of the village; and courting had been so pleasant to a few that others had followed. The broken English of the maidens was so pretty, and their eyes had such a fire in them. Many a girl, though, had to be won by fierce fighting, for the boys of the village had no love for the strangers. On Saturdays, when strangers and villagers met, drank, and fought, the village constable discreetly kept out of the way. Things have changed since then.

To understand the story of the starting of Penydarran we must turn back a page or two of the book of history. Homfray passing by the ravine on the right of the roadway as you ascend from Merthyr to Dowlais, was struck with its adaptability for the site of an ironworks, and rented it for £3 a year. He and two other Homfrays were joined by a Londoner, named Forman, who held some kind of office at the Tower, and had saved a lot of money. Then together they built a furnace, and went along swimmingly. In 1796 they built furnace No. 2, and brought another lot of men from Staffordshire. In that year they fairly eclipsed even Dowlais itself; for while Dowlais turned out 2,100 tons in the year, Penydarran could show a make of 4,100 tons, or nearly double. Penydarran was regarded as the more important centre in every way. We have only to turn to the rate books to see that while Penydarran was rated at £3,000, Dowlais was only rated at £2,000, and Plymouth at £750. By 1803 Penydarran made fifty tons of bar iron weekly. It is to John Davies, father of Mr D. Davies, J.P., of Galon Uchaf, and of the Morriston Tinplate Works, that is due the honour of rolling the first bar. The son afterwards arose to be the owner of the works. What Penydarran accomplished in after days and how under Trevethick its owners started the first locomotive that ever ran, must be left for another paper.