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
On this day in 1896, an extraordinary event occurred in the ‘urban district’ of Merthyr Tydfil: The County Intermediate and Technical School opened for work. Parliament had not yet recognised Merthyr as a proper ‘town’ but it had recognised the need for Welsh boys and girls to further their school studies until the age of eighteen and even to set their sights on a university education, if desired. These were children of working-class and small businessmen parents who could not afford the luxury of private or public- school tuition for their offspring. The school opened without ceremony but in a formal gathering in January 1897 Professor Villiamu Jones, Principal of University College, Cardiff, ended his inaugural speech, hoping that many Merthyr pupils would pass into that college in the future. Over seven decades a fair number did just that.
The curriculum planned for the new secondary stage -‘county intermediate’ schools – in deprived, industrial areas of Wales was based on that of older grammar and public schools. They soon became known as county ‘grammar’ schools. Merthyr’s school was equipped to take in 100 boys and 80 girls who would pay a small fee. The knowledge of its young people broadened and their quality of life improved. Sadly, many children were not touched by this new venture and still left school at twelve, or earlier, usually because they had to, in order to earn a pittance – often down the mines – to boost the family income. The luckier ones, among whom were budding scholars, knew that a place in the school was a gift; some began to cherish ambitions of going to the new university colleges at Aberystwyth or Cardiff. Parents usually supported those youngsters even though it would mean seeing them leave home eventually – and possibly forever. Attendance numbers fluctuated but most pupils accepted that the new system of extra years and important exams would bring rewards.
Photo courtesy of the Alan George archive.
J.O. (John Oswald) Francis entered the school, at the age of fourteen, on the day it opened. He lived above his father’s farrier shop in 41, High Street, opposite the Baptist Chapel. He excelled at his studies and became a distinguished London dramatist, public speaker and broadcaster. When he left Merthyr at the age of eighteen his memories of the lively town stayed with him and inspired him to write plays and stories for nearly half a century. This is what he told wireless (radio!) listeners about the school in a B.B.C broadcast in the 1950s:
From St David’s School I went to the Higher Gradeschool in Caedraw. For boys whose parents did not send them away to school-and very few parents in Merthyr sent their children away for education- the Higher Grade was the limit the town offered us and it could not offer us much because it wasn’t linked to a university. For a boy who wanted to go on learning, Merthyr was a blind alley, a dead end. Then a rumour came flying about amongst us boys- flying for some of us like a bird with bright wings- a new kind of school was to be opened in Merthyr – a County Intermediate School that would provide secondary education up to quite a high level. And what a blessing the school was to Merthyr! What a blessing it was to me! I was young enough – and only just young enough – to take advantage of the new system. Had I been a year or two older I should have had to stay outside that learned paradise, looking rather hungrily at the gates that were closed against me. I was only a slip of a lad but I had enough sense to see what had happened. Merthyr was no longer a dead end. Merthyr was opportunity. I went for the opportunity with eager hands. At the end of my time at the County School I passed the Central Welsh Board’s examination and -manna from heaven! – I was awarded a County Exhibition of forty pounds a year. That was quite a big sum in those years and it eased my way to Aberystwyth to study for a university degree.
Fifty years on, as Francis made his way up to the school, during a visit to Merthyr, he mused on the opportunities his education had brought him:
I am one of those lucky people…I realised more clearly than ever how much I owed to the school… I made bold to go in. I found the headmaster, Dr Lewis, who received me with great kindness. We talked together and he went off and came back with a big, brown, covered book. ‘This book is a permanent register of pupils who have been at the school’, he said. ‘I’ll show you your name.’ He opened the book and my name, written in full, was on the first page That got me all warmed up with sentiment… Then Dr Lewis took me to see the Honours Board on which were set out the names of pupils, who had won academic distinction. And there in the glory of gilt lettering, was a record of my having taken a B.A. degree-a degree I went off to work for in Aberystwyth fifty-five years ago.
Francis also hints in one of his stories that he was aware that although some pupils enjoyed the new subjects like Latin and French, they didn’t stay on, having been persuaded by proud collier fathers that their future was in coal-mining.
Others reminisce on past times at the school, now demolished, but of blessed memory:
Ceinwen Jones (now Statter), writes: I went to The County from Penydarren School in 1954. After the Easter holiday the whirlwind that was Glynne Jones arrived to teach us music. He changed my life! He set up a choir when about half the school came back (out of uniform) on Friday evenings. We went on to sing works like The Messiah. Thanks to some excellent teaching I went to Cardiff University to study French and Italian and then trained as a journalist on the Western Mail and Echo. Although being away in Reading for over forty years I have never been out of touch with friends like Sandra Williams, Merryl Robbins, Helen O’Connor and the sadly missed Valerie Baker and Byron Jones.
County School Choir. Photo courtesy of Ceinwen Statter
Ian Hopkins, a former Head Boy (1959-1960), also went on to Cardiff – to take a B.Sc. degree. He returned to Merthyr for long service in teaching and in choral activities: I entered the County Grammar School in 1953 and spent seven happy years there. Two of the teachers – without belittling the others – had a profound effect on my life, viz Elwyn Thomas (Head of Maths) and the inimitable Glynne Jones. The school choir was more than merely a musical organisation: Friday evening 6.00 pm rehearsal was the focal point of the social life of the school. Glynne engendered in me, and in many of the others, a love of choral music that has endured. In the heyday of the Dowlais Male Choir a disproportionate number of members had sung in Glynne’s school choirs.
The school had a three-form entry, one Boys, one Girls and one Mixed. Segregation of the sexes was strict with a boys’ corridor and a girls’ corridor. My memories include playing fives – the fives courts were unique for schools in our area- playing rugby for the school teams and football in the school yard.
One story: when I was in Form 2 there was a heavy fall of snow and a number of us were throwing snowballs in the classroom. Mr Thomas came in and demanded to know who was responsible. Some confessed and were given detention. Others, including me, did not- the fear of Elwyn was the beginning of wisdom! Later that afternoon, I encountered him in town and confessed and asked that my name be added to the detention list. But when the list was called out later in the week, not one of the miscreants was on it. From then on, Elwyn Thomas could do no wrong in my eyes. Perhaps that’s why I became a Maths teacher!
Many others who followed similar or different paths as adults will, no doubt, have lasting memories of ‘The County’.
The school was closed and demolished in the 1970s and the site acquired for new housing. Regrettably, and shameful to report, few records of its existence and of its countless pupils remain. It has been said that ‘even the revered Honours Board ended up on a skip’- evidently unwanted in the new replacement ‘comprehensive’ school at the top of town, part of the most recent parliamentary plan for secondary education.
Nevertheless, some facts and figures survive in an old almanack, published by the Merthyr Express at the end of 1896.It contains an invaluable review of the development of education in Merthyr from the 1840s; this ends with the then most recent step in that development – The County Intermediate School and an insight into the local efforts that were made to achieve it. It was written by Mr E. Stephens, Clerk of the Board of Education in Merthyr Tydfil. The subject of improved secondary schooling for pupils up to the age of eighteen, had been discussed over decades in Parliament, where it was championed by Henry Austin Bruce, MP for Merthyr Tydfil, (future Lord Aberdare) and at the Glamorgan County Education Department in Cardiff. A new century was nigh before it materialised:
The question of Welsh Intermediate Education excited as deep an interest at Merthyr as it did in other parts of Wales and no time was lost in taking measures to secure the boon conferred by the Act of Parliament (i.e. The Welsh Intermediate Education Act of 1889) for the creation of these schools. On the 18th of November that year, a conference was held at the Board Room of the Workhouse, over which Mr W. Morgan JP, then High Constable, presided. It was decided to ask the County Committee to make Merthyr a centre for one of the schools- to accommodate 100 boys and 80 girls… After much negotiation a site embracing two acres of freehold land was finally secured in the Clock Field at Penydarren for £1200, Colonel Morgan, the owner, contributing £300 out of the amount for the building fund. A public meeting, in aid of the scheme was held at the Temperance Hall on March 20th 1891, Lord Aberdare presiding. A premium of £25 was offered for the successful plan, but the one chosen, by a Mr Crombie of London, proved to be far too expensive. The committee then obtained a second competition, on the basis of £25 per head. The plan of Mr E. Lingen Barker of Hereford was selected. The tender of Mr J. Williams of Swansea was accepted for the erection of the schools, but before the buildings were completed and opened for scholars the planned cost had run up to £6,198 3s 2d of which the architect received £464 14s 6d; the clerk of works £128 6s and the contractors the balance. Of this account £1,557 2s was raised by local subscriptions and the county fund provided the rest. (The fifty donors and the amounts donated are listed).
Alderman Thomas Williams JP is the chairman of the local governing body and the following comprise the teaching staff of the schools. Headmaster, Mr Charles Owen M.A. salary £100 a year with a capitation of £2 per year on each boy; first assistant master Mr W.H. Topham M.A., salary £160; second assistant master, Mr A.J. Perman M.A., salary £130; first mistress, Miss Edith Heppel who won a B.A. degree at Oxford but did not receive it as that university does not confer degrees upon women, salary £180 a year; second mistress, Miss Kate Thomas, salary £100 a year. The schools were opened for work on October 12th 1896, but a ceremonial opening is to take place on January 11th, 1897.
The school (i.e. pupils, staff and buildings) established itself in the Clock Field just before the start of the 20th century, in the soon-to-be-incorporated ‘town’ of Merthyr Tydfil.
Photo courtesy of the Alan George Archive
Mary Owen.
Who attended the former Port Talbot County Intermediate School (1945- 52)
With thanks to Betty Harrington for the gift of the almanack, and to Ceinwen Statter, Ian Hopkins and the late J.O. Francis for the memories.
***Many thanks to Mary Owen for pointing out that the David Francis who is the proprietor of the business in this advert is none other than the father of J O Francis, the great Merthyr playwright, who has featured previously on this blog (http://www.merthyr-history.com/?p=101).
The Merthyr Tydfil Historical Society are pleased to announce the publication of volume 28 of the Merthyr Historian.
The book will be officially launched on 11 December 2017 at The Redhouse (the Old Town Hall) in Y Faenor Room (The Gallery) at 2.30pm.
Details of the latest volume are below.
Volume 28
Christine Trevett & Huw Williams, Editors Published 2017 – ISBN 978-0-9929810-2-0
Contents:
An Editorial Statement
1. Ars Gratia Artis: Popular Culture and the Making of Modern Merthyr Tydfil by Huw Williams
2. Rediscovering J.O. Francis (1882-1956) The Distinguished Merthyr-born Playwright by Mary Owen
3. Pilgrimage of a Vagabond: The Harry H. W. Southey Story by Christopher Parry
4. More Than Just a Bed-cover, More Than Just a Dress by Christine Trevett
5. Disestablishment of the Church in Wales: An Anniversary by David Lee
6. Isaac Craigfryn Hughes of Quakers Yard: Colliery, Culture and the Common Man by Christine Trevett
7. William Warde Fowler: From Gwaelod y Garth House to Ancient Rome by Christine Trevett
8. The Royal Crescent Allotments 1917-2017 by Hywel Mathews
9. George Jones (Talfyrydd): A Forgotten Local Historian by Brynley Roberts
10. The Taff in Poetry and Paint: An Appreciation of “A Fold in the River by Philip Gross and Valerie Coffin Price” by the Editors
11. Biography of Contributors
On Saturday 14 October 2017, Llafur, the Welsh People’s History Society is holding a Day School entitled:
Dramatists & Drama in Twentieth Century Industrial South Wales
One of the guest speakers is the excellent Merthyr historian Mary Owen who will be talking about the distinguished Merthyr-born play playwright, J. O. Francis.
Mary has written an excellent book about J. O. Francis, and she also kindly wrote an article about him for this blog.(http://www.merthyr-history.com/?p=101)
Following on from Mary Owen’s fascinating article about Merthyr’s forgotten literary hero, J.O. Francis, Merthyr Tydfil Public Libraries are organising an evening dedicated to him, and have arranged for two of his plays to be staged at the Old Town Hall.
Please note that this a FREE event.
Tickets are available from The Old Town Hall (aka The Redhouse). Telephone – 01685 384111
Merthyr Tydfil is currently commemorating the 60th anniversary of the death of a forgotten pioneer son, the distinguished playwright, J.O. Francis (1882-1956).
J. O. Francis
He was born in 15, Mary Street in Twynyrodyn but spent his childhood and youth at 41, High Street, living above the shop of his blacksmith father, David Francis. His Rhondda-born mother, Dorothy, was a dressmaker and milliner. John Oswald (known as J.O. for most of his adult life) was the eldest of five children. He was a gifted scholar, having received a good education in the “learned paradise” of the new County Intermediate and Technical School, at which he became a pupil on the day it opened in 1896. It gave him the chance of going to university at Aberyswtyth, whence he graduated with a first in English Literature in 1904. He never forgot that good fortune and he never forgot Merthyr Tydfil for all it had meant to him. It was the inspiration of his writing: the many memories he recalled depict the Merthyr Tydfil of our grandparents and great-grandparents. He is part of our heritage but has been sadly neglected. He was a man of many enthusiasms with a passion for the theatre and for rugby. He gained fame two decades before the celebrated Jack Jones, who was a contemporary and who echoed many of the ground-breaking ideas of J.O. Francis, who wrote for most of his life living as a proud London Welshman in an area of London that made the theatres, the London Welsh playing fields and Twickenham internationals easily available. He was much respected as a gifted dramatist and stylish essayist and was a popular broadcaster. “He was a man of many opinions and no prejudices”.
The Merthyr Tydfil Leisure Trust, the libraries, the researchers at the Ynysfach Engine House, the Redhouse theatre staff, Cyfarthfa Museum, the Merthyr Tydfil Museum and Heritage Group and many individuals are pleased to be able to celebrate belatedly the life and work of a once famous pioneering son of the town. He wrote the first Anglo-Welsh realist drama about the working class. It was called ‘Change’ about a family of Welsh colliers at the time of a strike and he helped to make amateur dramatics a new culture in the grim industrial valleys of South Wales and beyond- all in need of some fun and entertainment.
Many thanks to Mary Owen for contributing the above article.
A loaned portrait of the writer, commissioned by Lord Kemsley and painted by Ceri Richards is on view in the Wedding Room of Cyfarthfa Castle.
J. O. Francis painted by Ceri Richards
J.O. Francis (1882-1956) The Distinguished Merthyr-born Dramatist is an appreciation ofhis life and work, written by Mary Owen. It includes many extracts from the work of J. O. Francis. It will be launched by the library in Merthyr Tydfil on 12 October at 11.30 a.m. in the courtyard of The Redhouse.
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. 
One of the guest speakers is the excellent Merthyr historian Mary Owen who will be talking about the distinguished Merthyr-born play playwright, J. O. Francis.
