David Davies was born in July 1857, the youngest of ten children.
His father died when David was just seven years of age, and at the age of ten, he began working at a candle factory at Caedraw. When the factory closed, David returned to school for a short time before gaining employment at another candle factory in Victoria Street. When he was 18 he began working at the Plymouth Works Rolling Mills, and after their closure, he found employment at the Ifor Works Rolling Mills.
In 1878 he became a conductor on the London and Northwest Railway omnibuses which connected the train passengers with the Brecon and Merthyr Railway at Dowlais Central Station. When the Morlais Tunnel opened in June 1879, the buses were no longer required, so he became a porter and later signalman. He married Mary in 1881 and moved to Pant, and the couple had six children – Annie, Albert, William, Arthur, Frank and Bryn, Albert losing his life in the First World War.
A man deeply involved in local politics, fighting for an improved living standard for others, he organised a large demonstration at Cyfarthfa Park, asking for 2,000 new houses to be built. He was also a J.P., served on the Board of Guardians for nine years, was one of the founders of the Dowlais Co-operative Society (later becoming its chairman), and he was also a founder member of the Dowlais Railwaymen’s Coal Club, which had its own wagons, and by cutting out the middle-man, saved the profits for its members.
In 1919, he was the official candidate (Dowlais Ward) for the Merthyr Trades Council and Labour Party. Points of his campaign were:-
Free medical and nursing care for infants.
Clean, plentiful, cheap milk; managed by the people for the people and thus eliminating private profit.
Free meals for hungry children.
Free medical treatment for the needy and sick.
He was elected mayor in 1925-26.
David died in 1940, his principal aim in life having been to leave the town of his birth a better place than he found it.
Following on from the recent article about J.O. Francis’ romantic reminiscences of the railway, you have to ask – what is a railway without a locomotive and what is locomotive without a whistle?
“The Western Mail” had an answer, printing, on Friday 4th January 1935, an article with the banner “Romance of the First Steam Whistle”.
Adrian Stephens. Photo courtesy of the Alan George Archive
Like so many inventions, the steam whistle was born in the Dowlais Iron Company. Its inventor was Adrian Stephens, a Cornishman by birth, who had come to Merthyr in the early 19th century, and had initially worked as Chief Engineer at the Plymouth Iron Works before moving to a similar role in the Dowlais works in about 1827. Here he had charge of the mill and the blowing engines.
Never a place blessed with health and safety standards, iron working was particularly dangerous, and in about 1835 there was an explosion where one of the old non-tubular boilers burst, with the loss of several lives. An investigation into the incident suggested that there was negligence – smoke and grime had made the safety gauges unreadable, and the stoker had failed to ensure an adequate supply of water was pumped in.
John Josiah Guest tasked Adrian Stephens with the job of finding a way to prevent a reoccurrence, and after some experimentation with a long tube similar to a tin whistle, and then some organ pipes that Stephens asked Guest to source, he eventually came up with a local copper tube, made like a bosun’s pipe, but wider and with a larger vent. The end of the tube was fixed to the top if the boiler, with the other held submerged in the water in the boiler. As the water ran dry, the steam was pushed up the pipe and a shrill whistle sounded, thereby allowing action to be taken before the pressure caused an explosion. Not surprisingly, the workers hated it, regarding it as a nuisance to be put out of action. Stephens therefore enclosed it in a cage, and it was in this form that it was adopted by all the Merthyr ironworks – and then added to every boiler, railway locomotive and steam ship around the world.
Adrian Stephens’ Steam Whistle. Photo courtesy of the Alan George Archive
Stephens did not patent his invention. Writing to his niece in 1872 he said “Neither in want, nor caring for money at the time, I did not think of taking a patent”. He was even unsure about which year he had introduced it, guessing 1835, as it was before Guest was created a baronet (1838).
But his steam whistle was not the only railway connected achievement – Stephens was also credited with planning the “Lady Charlotte”, the first locomotive to be used at the Dowlais Works.
After Guest’s death, Stephens moved to the Penydarren Ironworks, where he invented, according to his son, the “Hot Blast”, which made the furnaces hotter and more efficient, before ending his career as a Civil Engineer for Anthony Hill in the Plymouth Works.
Stephens died in 1876 by which stage his invention had revolutionised steam safety. He is buried in Cefn Cemetery, within hearing distance of the Merthyr-Brecon/LNWR trains whistling up and down the track.
So the next time you hear the “whoo whoo” from the heritage railway or the magnificent Flying Scotsman, think of Adrian Stephens and Merthyr’s role in that Age of Romance.
Adrian Stephens’ grave at Cefn Cemetery. Photo courtesy of the Alan George Archive
The engines of the “Rhymney” Railway do not stand out clearly in my memory. I fear that, in my enthusiasm for the “Taff”, I never did justice to a line that dared to compete by taking folk to Cardiff. It had its advocates, however, and I recall that it was commended for an honest turn of speed. The “London North Western” also suffered the same injustice. In those days of restricted geographical knowledge we were unable to put the credit of the “London North Western” its importance on the way from London to Lancashire. As I remember it then, in its black coat and sleek contours, the “London North Western” engine carried an air of restraint and culture, suggesting, perhaps, an elegant curate. It came among us kindly, but it was never really of us.
But there was one engine that we classed apart from all others. It was the dear old “Brecon and Merthyr” in its faded coat of brown. What degree of precision that line has now acquired I do not know. Since those old days it may have grown meticulous, and, like the “Cambrian”, begun to sub-divide its breathless minutes. But in the period of which I speak nobody ever asked the “Brecon and Merthyr” to run to time. It was not even expected. People were, in the main, quite satisfied if it came in on the proper day. It had, no doubt, good reason for its tardiness; and when it arrived at last the general relief was so charged with fine emotion that pity and forgiveness floated easily to the top.
A train on the Brecon and Merthyr Railway approaching Torpantau in the 1940s. Photo courtesy of the Alan George Archive
Looking back I am driven to believe that, for us small boys, the “Brecon and Merthyr” fulfilled a literary purpose quite outside the intentions of its directors. In that stage of literary taste we were, most of us, given to the assiduous study of Deadwood Dick and the whole fraternity of Canyon, Gulch and Bowie Knife. All our young romanticism, which otherwise might have hung loose in the air, centred about the “Brecon and Merthyr”. It was our stage-coach, moving through the terrors of the wild and woolly West. The other railways went through the civilized and ordered belts of Glamorgan; but the “Brecon and Merthyr” wound its way through lonely places in the frowning hills. When, long after the appointed time of arrival, it had not even been signalled, who knew that some “foul-play” had befallen it? Desperadoes might have sent it crashing into the lake at Dolygaer, or it might be that at Cefn masked men had boarded it, covering the driver with their “derringers”, while others looted whatever the guard’s van held as the equivalent of the gold nuggets of our literature.
Many of those who, in that long ago, kept with me the vigil of the trolleys are now staid citizens with small boys of their own. It may be that, with the hypocritical virtue of age, those old companions now chide their youngsters should they come home a little late, bringing with them a faint odour of fish and vegetables. But it may be, too, that if any of those little boys of former time chance to read what is here written they will temper paternal judgement with new mercy, for so they must do if they can remember the thrill of those dark winter evenings when, from that far romantic void, the “Brecon and Merthyr” came home at last – with driver and stoker lit by the glow of boiler-fires to the semblance of heroes more than mortal.
This article was transcribed from the book ‘The Legend of the Welsh’, an anthology of J. O. Francis’ writings published in 1924.
I would recommend anyone to try to track down a copy of the book – it’s a fantastic collection of some of the short works by one of Merthyr’s best, but sadly forgotten. writers.
Today marks the 140th anniversary of the birth of one of Merthyr’s greatest writers – J. O. Francis. To mark the occasion, one of his excellent short essays is transcribed below, following a short introduction by Mary Owen who wrote a marvellous biography of him.
John Oswald Francis (J.O.) was born at 15, Mary Street, Twynyrodyn in 1882, and lived later at 41, High Street, next door to Howfields, when his father, a blacksmith, opened a farrier shop in the busy shopping centre. In 1896 he entered the County Intermediate and Technical School on the day of its opening and benefited greatly, like many others, from the education he received there. It formed the grounding for the rest of his life. A blacksmith’s life was not for him. In 1900, he gained a scholarship to University College of Wales, Aberystwyth, where he graduated with first class honours in English.
He lived for the rest of his life in London, where he was well known as a dramatist, journalist, broadcaster and a popular public speaker. He found fame in 1913 with his play, Change, about ordinary Welsh working-class people and the problems they were facing as changes were taking place in politics, religion and education. It was the first of its kind and gave a new genre to drama, which influenced writers for decades. Although he lived away from Merthyr Tydfil for most of his life, his knowledge of it in his youth inspired him to write about it in the years that followed until his death in 1956. His many short comedies helped to bring about the popularity of amateur dramatics, especially in Glamorgan. He was a pioneer and he became a leading member of the First Welsh National Drama Movement. He was regarded as ‘a distinguished dramatist, ‘a gentle satirist, and ‘always a Merthyr boy’.
Mary Owen
The Railways of Romance
None of us can determine which of the impressions we are always unconsciously receiving is being most deeply written on our minds. What abides is, often enough, that which might least be expected to remain. It is, too, sometimes a little incongruous, as if memory were in part jester, playing tricks with recollection – perhaps in kindness – lest the past should have too grim a visage.
Setting up to be a serious and philosophic person, I must confess to some perplexity over my remembrance of South Wales. There is an interloping thought that persists in creeping into the midst of more exalted memories. I cannot think of the high places of my early destiny – my home, my school, the houses of my more generous relations, and the chapel of my juvenile theology – but that a railway station crowds unasked into the mental scene. In the station of that Town of the Martyr in Glamorgan, an there, no doubt, small boys, stealing away from the harsh realities of the High Street, still snatch a fearful joy upon the trolleys, and staring away past the signal box, weave for themselves the figments of young romance.
Merthyr Railway Station in the early 1900s. Photo courtesy of the Alan George Archive
The small boy’s zest in railway stations has, I may argue in self-defence, a basis in the deep instincts of humanity. In the old primitive world the barbarian, looking up on the sun, was overwhelmed by a sense of its vast power. He made a god of it, and bowed in reverence. So, also, that unequivocal barbarian, the average small boy, beholds in a railway engine an example of power well within the range of his understanding. It is, perhaps, the same old instinct of adoration that kindles in every healthy youngster his burning desire to be a railway-guard.
Even in this riper stage, when life holds joys more attractive than the right to blow the whistle and to jump authoritatively upon a moving train, I find that a railway station can still exercise a certain lure. To every good Welshman, Paddington and Euston are wondrous places. He may not be one of the happy pilgrims, but it is a pleasure merely to look at carriages that go out under such banners as “Cardiff”, “Fishguard”, “Aberystwyth”, “Dolgelley” or “Barmouth”, and if he is not quite a curmudgeon he can find a vicarious delight in the blessedness of those departing.
But Paddington and Euston have a strenuous air. They do not encourage people to loiter upon trolleys and watch the pageant of the trains. In that station of the Martyr’s Town there was more tolerance. Over Paddington and Euston it had also this other advantage – it did not monotonously receive and despatch the rolling-stock of a single company. Oh, no! It had trains in a variety that I have never since seen equalled. Almost all the lines in Glamorgan gathered to it, just as all paths are said to lead to Rome.
Simply to enumerate the companies that sent their trains to pause under that grimy but catholic roof is to recover something of the rapture of the schoolboy “with shiny morning face”. We had the “Great Western” and the “Taff”; the “London North Western”, the “Rhymney”, and the “Brecon and Merthyr”. I am sorry that, by some kindly roundabout way, the Barry Railway did not run in also. But I am sure that it was then much more than a project.
We small boys of the station-hunting breed knew the different types of engine point by point. We had each of us a favourite. Bitter indeed were our disputes on the question of comparative worth, and devotion went occasionally to the chivalry of fisticuffs. Squeaky voices were raised in partisan abuse. Young eyes shone with the light of a noble championship. (Grown-up people, I have since learnt, land themselves in the law courts for issues less important than those falsetto controversies).
The engine of each company had its own characteristic quality, fully appreciated in our loving study after school hours and in the joyous emancipation of Saturday. The “Great Western” arrived from some vague place called “Swansea” – made after the “local” model, and with its well-known “tick, tick!” rather like a stout lady in a dark-green costume catching her breath after exhausting movement. To many of us the “Taff” was the most impressive of them all. I daresay that on a general suffrage, with a secret ballot to nullify the influence of some of our brawnier members, the “Taff” would have been voted the finest thing that ever went on wheels. How big and burly was the “Taff” engine as it swung past the signal box! How cheerfully it whistled, and how inevitably did it suggest a robust representation of John Bull!
Often did we wonder what would happen if it failed to stop before it reached the buffers. About our expectant platform hung the legend of a day when an engine had crashed right through and gone in mad career almost to the door of the Temperance Hall without. But not for us were such catastrophes! They were the story of an older era, a reminiscence of giants before the flood.
An old print showing the terrible accident mentioned above at Merthyr Station on 16 May 1874
David Davies was born in July 1857, the youngest of ten children.
This article was transcribed from the book ‘The Legend of the Welsh’, an anthology of J. O. Francis’ writings published in 1924. 
John Oswald Francis (J.O.) was born at 15, Mary Street, Twynyrodyn in 1882, and lived later at 41, High Street, next door to Howfields, when his father, a blacksmith, opened a farrier shop in the busy shopping centre. In 1896 he entered the County Intermediate and Technical School on the day of its opening and benefited greatly, like many others, from the education he received there. It formed the grounding for the rest of his life. A blacksmith’s life was not for him. In 1900, he gained a scholarship to University College of Wales, Aberystwyth, where he graduated with first class honours in English. 
