Iron and Coal—The Martyred Princess—Cyfartha Fawr—Diabolical Structure.
Merthyr Tydvil is situated in a broad valley through which roll the
waters of the Taf. It was till late an inconsiderable village, but is at
present the greatest mining place in Britain, and may be called with much
propriety the capital of the iron and coal.
It bears the name of Merthyr Tydvil, which signifies the Martyr Tydvil,
because in the old time a Christian British princess was slain in the
locality which it occupies. Tydvil was the daughter of Brychan, Prince
of Brecon, surnamed Brycheiniawg, or the Breconian, who flourished in the
fifth century and was a contemporary of Hengist. He was a man full of
Christian zeal, and a great preacher of the Gospel, and gave his
children, of which he had many, both male and female, by various wives,
an education which he hoped would not only make them Christians, but
enable them to preach the Gospel to their countrymen. They proved
themselves worthy of his care, all of them without one exception becoming
exemplary Christians, and useful preachers. In his latter days he
retired to a hermitage in Glamorganshire near the Taf, and passed his
time in devotion, receiving occasionally visits from his children. Once,
when he and several of them, amongst whom was Tydvil, were engaged in
prayer, a band of heathen Saxons rushed in upon them and slew Tydvil with
three of her brothers. Ever since that time the place has borne the name
of Martyr Tydvil. {21}
The Taf, which runs to the south of Merthyr, comes down from Breconshire,
and enters the Bristol Channel at Cardiff, a place the name of which in
English is the city on the Taf. It is one of the most beautiful of
rivers, but is not navigable on account of its numerous shallows. The
only service which it renders to commerce is feeding a canal which
extends from Merthyr to Cardiff. It is surprising how similar many of
the Welsh rivers are in name: Taf, Tawey, Towey, Teivi, and Duffy differ
but very little in sound. Taf and Teivi have both the same meaning,
namely a tendency to spread out. The other names, though probably
expressive of the properties or peculiarities of the streams to which
they respectively belong, I know not how to translate.
The morning of the fourteenth was very fine. After breakfast I went to
see the Cyfartha Fawr iron works, generally considered to be the great
wonder of the place. After some slight demur I obtained permission from
the superintendent to inspect them. I was attended by an intelligent
mechanic. What shall I say about the Cyfartha Fawr? I had best say but
very little. I saw enormous furnaces. I saw streams of molten metal. I
saw a long ductile piece of red-hot iron being operated upon. I saw
millions of sparks flying about. I saw an immense wheel impelled round
with frightful velocity by a steam-engine of two hundred and forty horse
power. I heard all kinds of dreadful sounds. The general effect was
stunning. These works belong to the Crawshays, a family distinguished by
a strange kind of eccentricity, but also by genius and enterprising
spirit, and by such a strict feeling of honour that it is a common saying
that the word of any one of them is as good as the bond of other people.
After seeing the Cyfartha I roamed about, making general observations.
The mountain of dross which had startled me on the preceding night with
its terrific glare, and which stands to the north-west of the town,
looked now nothing more than an immense dark heap of cinders. It is only
when the shades of night have settled down that the fire within manifests
itself, making the hill appear an immense glowing mass. All the hills
around the town, some of which are very high, have a scorched and
blackened look. An old Anglesea bard, rather given to bombast, wishing
to extol the abundant cheer of his native isle said: “The hills of
Ireland are blackened by the smoke from the kitchens of Mona.” With much
more propriety might a bard of the banks of the Taf, who should wish to
apologise for the rather smutty appearance of his native vale exclaim:
“The hills around the Taf once so green are blackened by the smoke from
the chimneys of Merthyr.” The town is large and populous. The
inhabitants for the most part are Welsh, and Welsh is the language
generally spoken, though all have some knowledge of English. The houses
are in general low and mean, and built of rough grey stone. Merthyr,
however, can show several remarkable edifices, though of a gloomy horrid
Satanic character. There is the hall of the Iron, with its arches, from
whence proceeds incessantly a thundering noise of hammers. Then there is
an edifice at the foot of a mountain, half way up the side of which is a
blasted forest and on the top an enormous crag. A truly wonderful
edifice it is, such as Bos would have imagined had he wanted to paint the
palace of Satan. There it stands: a house of reddish brick with a slate
roof—four horrid black towers behind, two of them belching forth smoke
and flame from their tops—holes like pigeon holes here and there—two
immense white chimneys standing by themselves. What edifice can that be
of such strange mad details? I ought to have put that question to some
one in Tydvil, but did not, though I stood staring at the diabolical
structure with my mouth open. It is of no use putting the question to
myself here.
After strolling about for some two hours with my hands in my pockets, I
returned to my inn, called for a glass of ale, paid my reckoning, flung
my satchel over my shoulder, and departed.