BRIDGE-BUILDING.
It so happened that when William Edwards had taken his first holiday, in
1741, to be groomsman at the marriage of his sister Jonet with his
friend Thomas Williams, that he had found Caerphilly--nay, all
Eglwysilan--in a state of ferment, owing to the exciting presence in
their midst of the noted preacher, the Rev. George Whitfield, for many
years the colleague of the Rev. John Wesley, and only recently separated
from him through doctrinal difference.
They had alike left their pulpits in the Church to go preaching and
teaching throughout the land, in the high-ways and by-ways, denouncing
the vice and folly and sin then rampant, calling sinners to repentance,
admonishing their hearers to lead simple, pure, and Christ-like lives,
and preaching the acceptable year of the Lord, at the same time holding,
as it were, the flaming sword of God's wrath over the impenitent.
It should here be told that, finding his dear mother made light of by
Cate, and set aside on the farm so very recently her own, William had
himself taken the first opportunity that presented itself to remove her
and Jonet to a farm he had acquired in the Aber Valley--not far from his
friend Thomas Williams--a farm for his mother and Davy to manage between
them.
His road hither, of course, lay through Caerphilly; and after having
left the town behind him nearly two miles, he was surprised to find a
concourse of people in a field by the wayside, not far from his own
home, listening to a man in a clerical gown and bands, who stood on a
pile of stones, and, with impassioned voice and gesture, besought his
hearers to 'flee from the wrath to come.' His text had evidently been:
'To-day if ye will hear His voice, harden not your heart;'[15] and he
hammered at the 'to-day' until he drove it into the hearts of many
around him. Women wept, men fell on their knees and called out aloud as
emotion swayed them, and William sat like a statue until the last word
was spoken and the preacher, worn out with his own fervour, turned to
depart along with some friends of his own.
William, like scores beside him, had gone to church and read his Bible
as a duty; had learned the catechism the good vicar drilled into the
youth of his flock; but beyond that his religion did not go very deep.
George Whitfield's sermon, on which he had come so suddenly, was like
the bow drawn at a venture, the sharp arrow from which smote the King of
Israel between the joints of his armour; for so it pierced the heart of
the young man, whose very thought of late had been of furnace-building
and of English study.
The face, the voice, the manner of the earnest preacher haunted him no
less than his awakening words. And when Davy, who had been also a
listener, laid his hand upon the horse's bridle, and spoke to him, he
started like one aroused from a dream.
To suit general convenience--the old vicar's included--it had been
arranged that Jonet and Thomas Williams should be married at St.
Martin's, Caerphilly--then only a chapel-of-ease to Eglwysilan; and
there a fresh surprise awaited William Edwards, for when, the following
day, the united wedding party from Brookside and Aber dashed
helter-skelter along the road to the church, in their race to catch the
bride, he beheld a gravely-attired procession on foot, somewhat ahead of
them, proceeding calmly in the same direction. And, when their own
panting steeds had been left behind at a convenient inn, he observed
that, of the more decorous bridal party entering the church porch, the
bridegroom, a man of some twenty-seven years, was no other than that
same Rev. George Whitfield, whose words had burnt themselves into his
breast, never to be effaced, and his bride, Elizabeth James, whom he
knew by sight.
He could scarcely keep his eyes off the man, or his attention on the
business before him. Yet he could not fail to notice that the aged
vicar, who was growing feeble and tremulous, was apparently conscious he
had no ordinary couple before him to unite in holy matrimony, and
performed the ceremony for both parties with unusual impressiveness,
undisturbed by the sounds of giggling and tittering in the rear.
Such giggling and tittering were of common occurrence, as was the rough
struggle for the first kiss of the newly-made bride, and the Rev. John
Smith raised no voice in rebuke or protest when such a rush was made
towards Jonet.
Not so the evangelistic bridegroom. No sooner were their names signed in
the register, than with his bride upon his arm, he quitted the church.
Then, surrendering her to the care of the sedate groomsman, he mounted a
tombstone, and with uplifted hand and voice demanded attention.
So unwonted was the proceeding, that even the most hilarious paused and
drew near out of mere curiosity; but when they left the chapelyard they
had received such a lecture on the reverence due to the sacred place, on
the solemnity of the ceremony they were present to witness, and on the
import for time and eternity of the vows there made in the sight of
God--such a lecture as few of those there assembled were likely to
forget.
At its close, William, withdrawing from his companions, walked up to Mr.
Whitfield and thanked him heartily for his discourses, both there and
the previous afternoon. 'You have roused me from spiritual apathy and
carelessness into which I never shall sink again,' he said, with
characteristic decision. 'And should you come to Cardiff before you
leave South Wales, you may count on me as an awakened hearer.'
The preacher's influence did not soon die away. William had other
opportunities for joining in the services led by the enthusiastic
preacher, and in his zeal prevailed on the blind baker and his niece to
bear him company. Rosser's infirmity threw him much within himself.
Elaine was naturally of a serious cast, and the eloquence of the
powerful revivalist moved them both greatly.
This was long before the girl's illness to which I have already
referred. But as William and her uncle conversed together on the great
truths they had heard so powerfully expounded, or joined in household
prayer, there can be no doubt a link was forged and strengthened to draw
the young people closer together, however insensibly, than if they had
spent their leisure in light chatter and frivolous fooling. Yet nothing
had been said in the course of years of either love or marriage.
Meanwhile William had made himself conversant with English. Then, at the
instance of Rosser, he procured the works of Sir Isaac Newton, and
devoted himself to the study of geometry and kindred sciences with the
assiduity of a man bent on success.
Barely had he completed his furnaces for Mr. John Morris when proposals
for like work came to him from other quarters, offering him most liberal
and gratifying terms.
Then, and not before, did he open out all his heart to Elaine, and,
proud of the distinction it implied, pressed her to become his wife
before he closed his engagement with his first patron, or entered upon
a fresh one which would remove him to a distance.
He had come upon Elaine in the twilight as she stood behind the
flap-counter of her uncle's open shop, with a few unsold loaves upon the
board, and, elate with the prospect before him, never doubted she who
had grown so dear to his heart would gladly put her hand in his to share
his rising fortunes.
He drew her closer to him as he stood beside her in the shade, and met
with no repulse, for she owned she knew his worth and loved him dearly,
but his soaring spirit drooped its wings under a sudden check.
'Nay, nay, dear William,' she said, amid slowly falling tears, 'it
cannot be. How I shall miss you, and grieve for you in your absence,
there is no telling; but though I can marry no one else, I cannot leave
my good uncle and aunt now they are getting into years. They have been
all the father and mother I have known.'
'But, my dearest Elaine, do not daughters leave their parents to become
wives? I never expected such an answer from _you_. Surely, when I took
that farm in the Aber Valley years ago, had I no deeper meaning than to
make my mother and David more comfortable? Had you no suspicion that one
day I should want to place my wife there, and make a home for both of
us?'
Her tears dropped on the strong hand that held hers in its clasp, but
she answered never a word.
'Elaine, dear Elaine,' he went on, 'I can enlarge the homestead, and
extend the farm lands, so that your uncle and aunt could live with us
all under one roof, if you will but consent.'
'Don't, don't, William dear,' she sobbed. 'It is very, very kind of you,
but it would never answer. You must not even suggest such a thing to my
uncle. He is proud of his double calling as baker and teacher. How often
have you heard him say with pride "he provided food for both body and
mind; and no man with both his eyes could do more"? No, you would wound
his self-dependence. I honour your good heart, but--I cannot leave
them.'
'Is there no one else can take your place, Elaine? How am I to leave you
here alone?'
She shook her head. 'They have no one but their married daughter in
Bristol. What sort of a wife should I make if I failed in my duty to
them? Besides, a wife just now would only cripple your freedom of
action. We are both young enough to wait.'
'Young enough if willing.' His obstinate temper was rising.
'If it be God's will, it should be our will.' As she spoke she withdrew
from his clasp.
'Look you, Elaine!' he exclaimed, with something of his old passion.
'The more a string is stretched, the sooner it breaks.' And away he went
in high displeasure, leaving her standing there faint with her own
effort at self-suppression.
It did not rest there. He was persistent. She was firm. And he had
neither won her consent to marry, nor come to terms for the construction
of fresh smelting works, when another project was on foot, which was to
make or mar the man.
I have said that roads were defective, and that bridges were needed to
span rivers which cut off communication between town and town, county
and county, and shut up the vast mineral wealth of South Wales.
Herbert, the new Lord of Cardiff, had made the Castle his residence, the
discoveries in connection with Mr. Pryse having determined him to see
with his own eyes, and to delegate irresponsible authority to no one. He
strengthened the hands of Mr. Morris in his efforts to utilise the iron
and coal of the county, and to provide remunerative work for the
depressed population. And he did what he could to improve, not merely
the decaying town, but the rest of his vast possessions in
Glamorganshire. He soon became keenly alive to the necessity for better
communication with his property on the other side of the Taff than that
of ferry, or ford, or coracle.
In this he was by no means alone.
Other landowners, magistrates, and men who saw fortunes buried beneath
the soil, or losing half their value upon it for want of accessible
markets, grumbled and growled on their own hearths, or to each other
when they chanced to meet, until the discontent became so general that
the heads of the county met in conclave at the Angel Inn in Cardiff,
and decided on the erection of a stone bridge over the treacherous Taff.
Then came the question, 'Who should be the builder?'
'There is no better builder whatever in all South Wales than Mr. William
Edwards,' said Mr. Morris, with decision.
'Indeed, and that's the truth,' came simultaneously from various
speakers.
'But he has never erected a bridge, and he is so very young,' put in
another dubiously. 'It will be a work of difficulty. We should engage an
architect of established repute.'
'He never put up a mill until he built Owen Wynn's flour-mill, and he
never put up a furnace until he built mine,' replied Mr. Morris; 'and
you all know what those are. But, young as he is, you may take my word
for it he will undertake nothing he is not competent to carry out, and
he is certain to accomplish whatever he has set his mind upon.'
A good deal of heated argument followed this speech.
The former speaker adhered to his suggestion that 'some one of more
eminence should be engaged--such a man, for instance, as Mr. James
Gibbs, an architect of note.'
His lordship shook his head. 'Yes; Mr. Gibbs is an ecclesiastical
architect of note, but you require a bridge, not a church, or a'--
'What? That old _Scotchman_!' burst from impatient lips. 'Did he ever
build a bridge? And what should a Scotchman know of our Welsh rivers?
And what would he charge?'
That suggestion of an exorbitant cost virtually settled the business
before Mr. Morris rose again, and with a wave of the hand to calm the
patriotic hubbub, remarked--
'I think, gentlemen, you will have to fall back on Mr. William Edwards.
He is confessedly the best builder in all South Wales--a practical
builder, not a mere architect. He was but a boy about nine years of age
when he told me his father had been drowned in crossing the Eglwysilan
ford, and that when he was a big man he would build a bridge there to
save other lives. Believe me, he would put his heart into the work. And
_he_ is not an alien.'
On the following day, September 16, 1746, three gentlemen, dressed in
deep vests, full-skirted coats, and three-cornered hats, more or less in
conformity with English wear, presented themselves at the baker's shop,
and asked to see Mr. Edwards.
They were shown upstairs into the class-room parlour by Elaine, and then
she tapped gently at William's door opposite in the dark passage, and
told him he was wanted.
He was at that moment seated, pen in hand, in front of his bureau-desk,
with a sheet of paper before him, on which he had begun to indite his
acceptance of the smelter's proposal.
Who could be wanting him?
Down went his quill; he thrust his arms into the short-tailed coat hung
over his chair back, gave himself a shake, and in less than two minutes
he was face to face with Mr. Morris and two strangers, to whom he was
formally introduced as _Mr._ William Edwards. They were magistrates, and
men of note in the county, deputed to lay before him the project for
bridging over the Taff, and ascertain his willingness to undertake its
construction.
Mr. Morris had placed himself in the broad window seat, his friends had
drawn a couple of the high-backed chairs between the window and the
table to bring them closer together, and as William stood there with the
full light of the setting sun upon his somewhat square features, they
could perceive him start and rest one strong nervous hand upon the
table, whilst his broad nostrils quivered, his bright clear eyes lit up,
and his face flushed, only to whiten under the excitement of their
proposal, and the remembrance of the unfinished letter upon his desk.
There could be no second thought of his acceptance.
'Willing to undertake it, gentlemen?' he said breathlessly. 'Competent?
It has been my dream from boyhood; though I owe the first suggestion to
a jesting hint from Mr. Morris. Stay, I will show you.'
In less than three minutes he had fetched from the bureau in the other
room--where he left a crumpled-up letter--several drawings of bridges
in all stages of architectural finish, from the first rude conception of
his youth, to the riper studies of manhood.
By the time his contract with Mr. Morris expired, his design for the
proposed bridge had been considered and approved, as also the site,
close upon the Eglwysilan ford, midway between Merthyr Tydvil and
Cardiff, so as to unite the already beaten road.
He was elate and buoyant over the trust reposed in him; although Rhys,
his mother, Davy, and other friends had been called upon to enter into
bonds for the fulfilment of his contract, since he was to be paid as the
work proceeded.
The intending smelter, desirous to secure his services, consented to
wait until he was again at liberty.
The young architect's pride had but one drawback. He could not shake
Elaine's fidelity to her uncle and aunt. She would not desert them in
their old age.
'It will be better for you to go to this great work unfettered by a
wife,' she argued bravely.
But he would not see the personal sacrifice she made, and went off at
last in a huff.
'This new business will be his solace,' she said. 'I must be content to
do my duty, and leave the rest to God.'
And neither her aunt nor her blind uncle knew the temptation she had
resisted for their sakes, though they thought her quieter than before.
She was right. His new business left William little leisure for looking
back.
He had gone over to Bristol to engage masons, in addition to those he
had already trained, before he finally took leave.
Then there was no running back. His first duty was to erect huts or
houses for his workpeople and their families; and he took care they were
such as should be of service when the temporary purpose was served.
He had long before made John Llwyd his foreman--a good deputy on whom he
could rely; just as he could depend on his old friend Robert Jones for
the best of stone from the very best local quarries, or for his sand and
lime. For the carriage of other matters to and fro he fell back on
Robert's active young partner Hughes, for whom the peat-cutter's niece
had jilted easy-going Davy.
But ere the foundations of the bridge were laid and firm, the builder
had engaged his brother-in-law, Thomas Williams, to supply the wooden
frames on which his arches were to be fitted and adjusted. And so, with
trustworthy coadjutors like these, the work went on steadily.
At first he had to battle with the deceitful river; but he and his men
watched the skies and did their best to prevent disaster, though more
than one occurred.
But the resolution of their master seemed infused into the men. If there
was any doubt or hazard, he took the tools himself, and wrought until
they were ashamed to hang back.
Though he had a farm of his own but two miles or so away, and his
brother's farm was close at hand, he occupied one of the new cottages
along with Llwyd, and so was always on the spot.
Besides that, he fared almost as his men fared. If a labourer's wife or
child fell sick he helped them from his own stores or pocket; and his
men worked all the better for his thoughtful kindness.
His bridge-building had brought quite a colony upon the spot, not merely
of the workpeople, but of others, who found they had money to spend and
wants to be supplied.
Soon he become conscious of another want. The Rev. John Smith, the kind
old vicar, had died full of years shortly after Jonet's marriage, and
the new vicar did not seem to recognise the strangers as part of his
flock. So William, finding the non-observance of the Sabbath led to
disorder, called the people round him, and from the Druids'
rocking-stone read out portions of Scripture to them, now and then
venturing on expositions of his own.
So the weeks and the seasons rounded until at the end of two years there
stood a fine three-arched bridge across the river, to be opened with
loud acclaim and rejoicing--a bridge the excited guarantors pronounced
firm and solid enough to stand as surely for seventy years as seven,
the period for which its stability was guaranteed.
'Indeed!' exclaimed the proud young builder. 'It is more likely to stand
firm for seven hundred years!'
FOOTNOTE:
[15] Psalm xcv. 7, 8.