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Welsh History

Welsh History Stories

Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, Taffy came to my house, and stole a side of beef

In the run up to the 2026 Eisteddfod Y Garreg Las in Llantood, we’ll regularly be adding stories here, stories hewn from the rich vein of Welsh history, a vein running all the way back to the time of The Red Lady of Paviland, who, some say, is the first Welsh person, or at least the earliest to be discovered living in a land physically recognisable as Wales.

But we start with the very definition of ‘unsung hero’, Griffith Jones of Llandowror, a man who walked this land for 77 years 33,000 to 34,000 years after the Red Lady, and we promise to continue travelling in our rusty time machine back and for along the Welsh history timeline ceaselessly searching out the best stories.  

In so doing, we hope to get closer to answering those difficult and complex questions, ‘what does it mean to be Welsh?’ and ‘how do you define Welshness?

So strap yourselves in: it could be a bumpy ride.

Welsh History Stories

The Circulating Schools of Griffith Jones of Llandowror (1683 - 1761)

His efforts led to a fundamental transformation of the life of Wales (Professor John Davies)

Chances are you’ve never heard of him. Even if you’re Welsh. But Catherine the Great had. In Russia. Far away and over there. At her palace near St. Petersburg. Thank you very much.

But here and now he’s largely a forgotten man. So it seems.

In that stampede to identify with what, from our history’s landmarks, makes us feel Welsh today.

The more recent, more glamorous, more obviously recognisable landmarks, people, stories or moments; rugby player, rebel prince, miner, magician, portal dolmen or black and white Pathe News politician.  

Unless they’ve had the privilege of being taught by Milford Grammar’s jewel in the crown, Mr Grenville ‘Buddha’ Thomas, most who roar past in their cars today, on the way from Pembrokeshire to St Clears and the great wide world beyond, will hardly give the blur that is Llandowror a second glance.

It’s just that church isn’t it? A road sign. Oh, and horses grazing in that field over there. Yet it was from this very village in the 1730s that, unlikely as it now may seem, a certain clergyman launched an educational revolution that took Wales, and, you could argue, the rest of the world by storm. That clergyman was one Griffith Jones, Griffith Jones of Llandowror and it was from Llandowror that he began his Circulating Schools, the Circulating Schools of Griffith Jones of Llandowror.

The Achievement 

It’s the 22 September 1731. A Saturday. Your rusty time machine has landed in Llandowror from the year 2025 with a shudder, a bump and a spilling of tea on the dial now showing 1731, as it gasps finally quiet, just in time for you to see the Reverend Jones, 47 years old, and not in good health, finally set up the very first Welsh speaking Circulating School. Fast forward to 1740 and he’s established 128 schools. With 7,595 pupils. Across the rest of Wales. Just 21 years later, in 1761, the year Jones dies, the numbers have become truly mind blowing. 3,495 schools. 1600 locations. 158,237 people taught.

At a time when the population of Wales is around 450,000, Professor John Davies estimates the number of those who have benefitted from the Circulating Schools as even higher: around 200,000, since the official number doesn’t take into account those only able to attend in the evening after work. It’s a figure, of course, that represents almost half the entire population of the country, and one that makes Wales one of the most literate nations in Europe, one of the few to have a literate majority.

The Context

The achievement is especially staggering when you appreciate the context, the society from which it is born.

If you’d travelled back in time just a little further, to the early 1700s, you’d soon be shocked to discover an age which boasts no compulsory education, none whatsoever, an era when the majority of working-class people can neither read nor write. There is scepticism even towards the idea of creating a state education system. Many believe education is a form of charity not a right.

In rural areas children are employed to help with farm work. In industrial areas you can find them in the ironworks, in the mines, eyes looking out at you startlingly white from faces blackened with coal dust and exhaustion. Child labour is commonplace. It is well paid. Many parents see schooling as unnecessary. 

A farm labourer in Cardiganshire with six illiterate children paints the picture perfectly when he tells a Commission,

There is no school in the parish where I live, and if there was I could not afford to send my children to it. I never get meat, except now and then a bit of bacon. I live upon potatoes, bread and cheese, and a little butter. The labour of children becomes valuable after 10; a boy of that age can earn a good wage, besides getting his meals at the farm house. Education is a good thing, but bread for a poor man is better

No wonder that Welsh education historians Gareth Elwyn Jones and Gordan Wynne Roderick describe the Circulating Schools as

among the most important educational experiments anywhere in Europe in the eighteenth century

No wonder that the success of the project attracts the interest of reformers and educationalists all over Britain, before Catherine the Great, Empress of Russia, catches wind of it and is inspired to commission a report on Griffith Jones' Circulating Schools in 1764, with a view to creating a similar system in her own country.

But how have on earth have these schools come about?

How do they work?

How are they received?

And who the heck is this Griffith Jones fella?

The Life of Griffith Jones

He was widely acknowledged as one of the greatest masters of the Welsh tongue, that ever Wales was blessed with (John Dalton)

Above: Griffith Jones' birthplace

Born in 1683 at Pant-yr-Efail, a small, isolated farm on the hillside above Nant Bran in Cwmhiraeth, Penboyr parish in Carmarthenshire (just a year before the death of his father), Grifith Jones dies in Laugharne on the 8th April 1761, ‘full of piety and full of days,’ later to be buried at the church in Llandowror.

It is safe to say his 77 years on this planet between those two dates have a huge impact.

Those years are shaped irrevocably by his early work as a shepherd because it’s on the hills alone with his flock where he has the profound spiritual experience, a vision, which fuels the religious vocation from which his impact, his achievements spring. He is soon accepted into the church and ordained a deacon despite never having enjoyed a university education.

A close friendship with Sir John Phillips of Picton (1666-1737) also has a profound influence on Jones’ life. Through Phillips he is introduced the SFPK, The Sociey For the Propogation of Christian Knowledge, becomes a member himself, and his own Circulating Schools are at least in part inspired by the earlier English language SFPK schools. Through the SFPK’s links with the German Pietist movement and a correspondence with Jakob Boehme and Herman Francke, Jones nearly becomes the first western missionary to visit India, but, during a postponement to the journey, during which he preaches in front of Queen Anne, he decides the priority is the spiritual needs of his own country, a conviction only intensified by what he sees for himself on a tour around Wales as part of a trip to Scotland with Sir John.

Driven by a sense of urgency for the ordinary person to hear the preaching of the gospels, the same sense of urgency which is eventually to be fulfilled in the establishment of his Circulating Schools, Jones, according to one Thomas Rees, soon becomes,

justly regarded as the greatest preacher at that time in the Principality

This is a period characterised by absentee bishops and clergyman who brazenly neglect their parishioners and their duties, a neglect which is soon to inspire that religious and social movement across the country that is the Methodist Revival.

One of Jones’ biggest critics, the neighbouring vicar, John Evans, is typical. Evans has no sympathy for the needs of the people entrusted to his care and makes no bones about it, openly regarding the Welsh as 

a generation of people, besotted by profaneness, and benighted in ignorance

Like many others, he rarely visits the two parishes in Wales for which he has responsibility, preferring to carry out his regular duties as a Reading Chaplain at the Chapel Royal in Westminster, returning home shamelessly but once a year to receive his tithe.

It is in this religious vacuum that a man of Jones’ learning and vocation thrives, and even before he’s preferred to the parish of Llanddowror in 1716, he’s already become famous for his preaching.

More significantly and more precisely, he’s famous for the quality of his preaching and for roaming the land far and wide well beyond the bounds of his own parish, to wherever he has an invitation to preach, if not from the local clergy, then from some of the more influential members of those parishes.

Excited crowds, many of them bored by the tedious homilies of their pastors, go to some pains to hear him. John Dalton estimates his congregations to be

above five and six hundred auditors, nay sometimes 1,000, a number not to [be] met with in Wales

Sir John Philipps puts the figure as often between 3-4,000.

Attracting multitudes from neighbouring counties and from as far afield as north Wales, Herefordshire and Monmouthshire, Griffith Jones becomes widely acknowledged as

one of the greatest masters of the Welsh tongue that ever Wales was blessed with

Jealous of his success, local clergy deny him access to their pulpits to preach, thus forcing him to speak in the open air to the large crowds who come to hear him, a style of preaching which, in many ways, is a forerunner to the style of preaching that comes to characterise the next generation of Methodist preachers.

Above: Griffiths Jones preaching in a churchyard

An eyewitness describes how Jones brings his sermons to a close: 


He seems to summon up all his remaining force; he gives way to a superior burst or religious vehemence and, like a flaming meteor, does bear down all before him

When Jones is obliged to defend his roaming and preaching in other parishes to the Bishop of St Davids at a formal hearing, he paints a picture of the inadequacy of the local clergy who hoodwink their flock with stupidity, suggesting that the bishop would be better served in,

stirring up those that preach, not in silencing those that do

The Bishop is persuaded.

Jones is preferred to the parish of Llandowror.

All the elements of his life are finally in place for the birth of the Circulating Schools

The Circulating Schools

Since he believes that people’s ability to find salvation comes directly through knowledge of the gospel, Jones’ determination to follow through his idea of developing the Circulating Schools is heightened by the smallpox epidemic (1727-1730) which takes the lives of many of his parishioners.

Thinking further on this situation, according to Thomas Rees, and spurred on by his parishioners’ lack of knowledge when tested at communion in his church at Llandowror, Jones recognises the need for people to develop their religious knowledge and understanding.

Though initially he regards it as no more than a pipe dream, slowly his idea, of seeing 'a well-organised system of schools extended over the whole surface of his native country,' starts to crystalise.

In 1734 Jones sets about organising a system to teach children and adults basic reading skills in their mother tongue in as short a time as possible, creating a series of schools that rotate or circulate around the rural parishes of Wales, mainly in the winter months when farm work is relatively slack. The schools stay in one place for approximately three to six months (or until such time as pupils have mastered the necessary skills), make use of churches, chapels, barns and farms to keep expenses to a minimum, and then move on to another location. Dozens of men, women and children flock to the schools, and though around two thirds of those attending are adults, pupils range in age from about six to seventy or more. Together in the flickering light of rush candles, all learn by heart key passages from the Welsh bible of William Morgan.

Though the schools are 'generally welcomed and kindly received everywhere, Griffith Jones is not without his critics, many disagreeing with teaching ordinary working men and women to read, particularly reactionary clergymen who feel that their position at the centre of the community is being undermined.

In fact, there is also extensive evidence of teachers being persecuted, especially in the north of the country which fosters a deep hostility towards Methodism. The experience in 1744 in Caernarvonshire of 23 year old Evan Williams, a teacher from south Wales, was typical if extreme.

Just two days after starting a Circulating School in the Lleyn, Williams is beaten with sticks by a mob, a mob actually egged on by the local vicar. Managing to escape, he is pursued and searched for by a gang of 30 men, eventually discovered and beaten again, but runs five miles barefoot and is nearly drowned in a tidal river which he is forced to swim at full flood in fear of his life, managing to escape a second time. His health broken, however, as the result of his injuries, he dies just four years later and is effectively considered a martyr for the cause of the Circulating Schools.

Nevertheless, the enthusiasm for the schools shown by the vast majority is clear and captured by one writer who talks of 

the insatiable longing of the common people to learn to read…the blind, the lame, the disabled and the old, came to the schools and wept for joy for the privilege

Indeed, there is evidence of at least one old lady who is completely blind attending her local school simply because she loves to hear the young children being taught, remaining to learn for herself the Lord's Prayer and the Ten Commandments.

Funded by wealthy patrons, these travelling schools reach almost every part of Wales. The language taught is usually Welsh, although English is used in areas such as south Pembrokeshire.

But Jones almost certainly could not have found such success without the staunch, lifelong support of friend and confidante Bridget Bevan (1698-1779), the influential and wealthy wife of barrister and MP Arthur Bevan, who had died in 1743. The two strike up a close friendship and it is Bevan who chiefly carries on the work of his Circulating Schools after his death using the £7000 he leaves her in his will to faithfully continue the project for another 18 years until her passing in 1779.

Bridget Bevan: friend, confidante and supporter of Griffith Jones

Gwladys Jones is surely correct when she says of the man who personally fed, clothed and doctored many of his needy parishioners,

It would be difficult to exaggerate the importance and effect of the charity school movement upon the history and character of the Welsh people

However, perhaps it is Professor E. Wyn Jones who best sums up Jones' impact,

Jones’s prime concern was the spiritual enlightenment of the Welsh people, and he and his educational movement were crucial in making the Bible and orthodox Protestant Christianity central to the lives of an increasing number of Welsh men and women as the eighteenth century progressed; but his work had other long-term consequences for Welsh life and culture which he would probably not have foreseen, nor sometimes even welcomed. In many ways, the flourishing of Methodism and evangelical Nonconformity, the preservation of the Welsh language, the strengthening of Welsh national identity, and the growth of radicalism, factors which between them created the radical, Nonconformist, Welsh-speaking culture that characterized much of Welsh life by the mid nineteenth century can all be traced back to his charity-school movement. It is certainly no exaggeration to describe Griffith Jones as ‘one of the prime makers of modern Wales and one of Britain’s most notable educational pioneers’

The church at Llandowror: centre of an educational revolution

Sources

Mr Grenville ‘Buddha’ Thomas, ‘Assorted Milford Haven Grammar School Notes.’

Professor John Davies, ‘A History of Wales.’

David Edward Pike, ‘Griffith Jones: Revival’s Morning Star.’

Dean Jones, ‘A Friend and Spiritual Father: Griffith Jones, Bridget Bevan, and The Circulating Schools of Wales.’

Phil Carradice, ‘Griffith Jones and the Circulating Schools.’

‘The Story of Wales,’ BBC TV Series

Revd Ivor J. Bromham, ‘Welsh Revivalists of the Eighteenth Century.’

Gwladys Jones, 'The Charity School Movement: A Study of Eighteenth Century Puritanism in Action’

Professor Wyn Jones, ‘Griffith Jones (1684–1761) of Llanddowror and his ‘Striking Experiment in Mass Religious Education' in Wales in the Eighteenth Century’

The Circulating Schools of Griffith Jones of Llandowror (1683 - 1761)

The Red Lady of Paviland

A Roman prostitute, wasn't she? The first ever Welsh person? Or a witch? 

Or possibly both at the same time. That’s what I've heard anyway, mate. The Red Lady of wherever?' If we're completely honest, most Welsh people will feel a little crestfallen, slightly disappointed today, that what we thought to be true and, frankly, so cool, for so many years is way wide of the mark.

'The first Welsh person', The Red Lady, was, unfortunately, wait for it, neither a witch nor a prostitute. And not even, wait for it again, genetically linked to any recognisably Welsh person.

And if you think the shocking revelations end there, think again.

Because, in fact, The ‘Red Lady’, wait for it, wait for it, wasn't even, a lady.

Here it comes. Are you sitting down?

The ‘Red Lady’ was...a man.

Hold the front page.

Oh yes indeed, you did read that correctly: a man. A man aged around 25 to 30 years old. In good health. Between 5 feet 7inches and 6 feet tall. Who probably died in a hunting accident. And was then laid to rest in Paviland Cave or Goat’s Hole Cave, a cave which did not have the sea crashing around its entrance, 34,000 years ago.

34,000 years ago, the sea was 50 or 60 miles away, which means standing at the mouth of the cave then and gazing out, the view greeting your gaze would have been utterly different as well as absolutely magnificent: a vast grassy plain stretching into the far off horizon teeming with mammoths, bison, woolly rhinos, oryx, herds of giant deer and even the odd sabre-toothed tiger. 

The sort of jaw dropping vista that brings to mind the look on Laura Dern's face as she and Sam Neil see their first real live dinosaur in Jurassic Park, a look of sheer, overwhelming awe. 

he earliest human so far found to have walked in a land recognisably Wales over 33,000 years ago,

The Red Lady is the oldest anatomically modern human skeleton found in Britain, and Paviland is the site of the oldest ceremonial burial in western Europe.

The Red Lady of Paviland

Paul Robeson And The Welsh Miners

You have shaped my life. I have learned from you

This is American superstar Mr Paul Robeson talking about his love of Wales in an address to the National Eisteddfod in Ebbw Vale. When asked what he wished to be given to mark his visit, he chose a Welsh hymn book because it reminded him of his own people’s rich musical heritage. Adding

Paul Robeson in relaxed manner at the piano in 1958 (Keystone Features/Getty Images)

There is no place in the world I like more than Wales

So how did Paul Robeson's love affair with The Land of Our Fathers come about? And how did Wales come to fall in love with Paul Robeson?

The following national Guardian newspaper article explains:

How Paul Robeson found his political voice in the Welsh valleys

African American star Robeson built his singing career in the teeth of racism in the early 1900s. But his radicalism was spurred on in Britain by a chance meeting with a group of Welsh miners.

Paul Robeson possessed one of the most beautiful voices of the 20th century. He was an acclaimed stage actor. He could sing in more than 20 different languages; he held a law degree; he won prizes for oratory. He was widely acknowledged as the greatest American footballer of his generation. But he was also a political activist, who, in the 1930s and 1940s, exerted an influence comparable to Martin Luther King and Malcolm X in a later era.

The son of an escaped slave, Robeson built his career despite the segregation of the Jim Crow laws, basically, an American apartheid system that controlled every aspect of African American life. He came to London with his wife Eslanda – known as Essie – partly to escape the crushing racism of his homeland. Yet later in life he always insisted that he became a radical as much because of his experiences in Britain as in America. In particular, he developed a deep bond with the labour movement, particularly with the miners of Wales. That was why, in 2016, I travelled from my home in Australia to visit the landscape that shaped Robeson’s politics.

Singing with a choir in a scene from 'The Proud Valley' (Photograph: Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

Pontypridd was a village carved out of stone. Grey terraced cottages, grey cobbled streets, and an ancient grey bridge arching across the River Taff.

The sky was slate, too, a stark contrast with the surrounding hills, which were streaked with seasonal russet, teal and laurel.

I was accustomed to towns that sprawled, as white settlers stretched themselves out to occupy a newly colonised land. Pontypridd, I realised, huddled. Its pubs and churches and old-fashioned stores were clutched tightly in the valley, in a cosy snugness that left me feeling a long way from home. I’d come here to see Beverley Humphreys, a singer and the host of Beverley's World of Music on BBC Wales.

“I have a strong feeling that we might meet in October!” she’d written, when I’d emailed her about the Paul Robeson exhibition she was organising. “I know from personal experience that once you start delving into Paul Robeson’s life, he just won’t leave you alone.”

In that correspondence, she’d described Pontypridd as the ideal place to grasp Paul’s rich relationship with Wales and its people. I knew that, in the winter of 1929, Paul had been returning from a matinee performance of Show Boat [in London] when he heard male voices wafting from the street. He stopped, startled by the perfect harmonisation and then by the realisation that the singers, when they came into view, were working men, carrying protest banners as they sang.

By accident, he’d encountered a party of Welsh miners from the Rhondda valley. They were stragglers from the great working-class army routed during what the poet Idris Davies called the “summer of soups and speeches” – the general strike of 1926. Blacklisted by their employers after the unions’ defeat, they had walked all the way to London searching for ways to feed their families. By then, Robeson’s stardom and wealth were sufficient to insulate him from the immiseration facing many British workers, as the industrialised world sank into the economic downturn known as the Great Depression.

Robeson at Waterloo Station in London in 1935. (Photograph: Topical Press Agency/Getty Images)

Yet he remembered his father’s dependence on charity, and he was temperamentally sympathetic to the underdog. Without hesitation, he joined the march.

Some 50 years later, [his son] Pauli Robeson visited the Talygarn Miners’ Rehabilitation Centre and met an elderly man who’d been present on that day in 1929. The old miner talked of how stunned the marchers had been when Robeson attached himself to their procession: a huge African American stranger in formal attire incongruous next to the half-starved Welshmen in their rough-hewn clothes and mining boots.

But Robeson had a talent for friendship, and the men were grateful for his support. He had remained with the protest until they stopped outside a city building, and then he leaped on to the stone steps to sing Ol’ Man River and a selection of spirituals chosen to entertain his new comrades but also because sorrow songs, with their blend of pain and hope, expressed emotions that he thought desperate men far from home might be feeling.

Afterwards, he gave a donation so the miners could ride the train back to Wales, in a carriage crammed with clothing and food.

That was how it began. Before the year was out, he’d contributed the proceeds of a concert to the Welsh miners’ relief fund; on his subsequent tour, he sang for the men and their families in Cardiff, Neath, and Aberdare, and visited the Talygarn miners’ rest home in Pontyclun.

Robeson remained [living] in Buckingham Street, London. He and Essie maintained a public profile as a celebrity couple, still mixing easily with polite society and the intelligentsia. But Robeson was now aware of the labour movement, and began to pay attention to its victories and defeats. His frequent visits to mining towns in Wales were part of that newfound political orientation.“You can see why he’s remembered around here,” Humphreys said,

He was so famous when he made those connections, and the Welsh mining community was so very cowed. In the wake of the general strike, people felt pretty hopeless

A Robeson exhibition opened in Pontypridd in October 2015 and was an echo of a much grander presentation from 2001, which Humphreys had assembled with Hywel Francis, then Labour MP for Aberavon, and Paul Robeson Jr [Robeson’s son died in 2014]. It was first shown at the National Museum in Cardiff and then toured the country.

Staging that event had been a revelation for Humphreys. She’d known that memories of Robeson ran deep in Wales, but she’d still been astonished by the response. Every day of the exhibit, people shared their recollections, speaking with a hushed fervour about encounters with Paul that had stayed with them for ever.

In the 1940 film The Proud Valley, about a Welsh community that takes in a black unemployed seaman (Photograph: Getty Images)

Paul’s interactions with Wales were shaped by the violence of mining life: the everyday hardship of long hours and low wages, but also the sudden spectacular catastrophes that decimated communities. In 1934, he’d been performing in Caernarfon when news arrived of a disaster in the Gresford Colliery. The mine there had caught fire, creating an inferno so intense that most of the 266 men who died underground, in darkness and smoke, were never brought to the surface for burial. At once, Robeson offered his fees for the Caernarfon concert to the fund established for the orphans and children of the dead – an important donation materially, but far more meaningful as a moral and political gesture.

And the continuing affection for Robeson was more than a recollection of generosity. “The Welsh sensed the relationship was reciprocal, said Humphreys. “That he was deriving something from their friendships, from seeing how people in the mining communities supported one another and cared for one another. He later said he learned more from the white working class in Wales than from anyone."

Certainly, Robeson discovered Wales – and the British working class in general – at just the right time. He’d signed up, with great hopes, for a film version of [Eugene O’Neill’s play] The Emperor Jones in 1933 – the first commercial film with a black man in the lead. But the process played out according to a familiar and dispiriting pattern. Robeson’s contract stipulated that, during his return to America, he wouldn’t be asked to film in Jim Crow states. Star or not, it was impossible to be shielded from institutional racism. At the end of his stay, as he arrived at a swanky New York function, he was directed to the servants’ entrance rather than the elevator. One witness said he had to be dissuaded from punching out the doorman, in a manifestation of anger he’d never have revealed in the past.

The Emperor Jones itself was still very much shaped by conservative sensibilities: among other humiliations, the studio darkened the skin of his co-star, lest audiences thought Robeson was kissing a white woman. Not surprisingly, while white critics loved the film and Robeson’s performance, he was again attacked in the African American press for presenting a demeaning stereotype.

A few years earlier, he might have found refuge in London from the impossible dilemmas confronting a black artist in America. But he’d learned to see respectable England as disconcertingly similar, albeit with its prejudices expressed through nicely graduated hierarchies of social class. To friends, he spoke of his dismay at how the British upper orders related to those below them. He was ready, both intellectually and emotionally, for the encounter with the Welsh labour movement.

“There was just something,” Humphreys said, “that drew Welsh people and Paul Robeson together. I think it was like a love affair, in a way.” And that seemed entirely right.

Addressing the National Eisteddfod of Wales in Ebbw Vale (1958)

The next morning, Humphreys and I walked down the hill, beneath a sky that warned constantly of rain. We made our way to St David’s Uniting Church on Gelliwastad Road. From the outside, it seemed like a typically stern embodiment of Victorian religiosity: a grey, rather grim legacy of the 1880s.

Inside, though, the traditional church interior – the pews, the pulpit, the altar – was supplemented by a huge banner from the Abercrave lodge of the National Union of Mineworkers, hanging just below the stained-glass windows. Workers of the world unite for peace and socialism, it proclaimed, with an image of a black miner holding a lamp out to his white comrade in front of a globe of the world.

The walls held huge photos of Paul Robeson: in his football helmet on the field at Rutgers [University]; on a concert stage, his mouth open in song; marching on a picket line. These were the displays extracted from the 2001 exhibition.

We chatted with parishioners, who were taking turns to keep the Robeson display open during the day for black history month. 

The service itself reminded me of my morning in the Witherspoon Street church, except that, while in Princeton [where Robeson was born] I’d marvelled at the worshippers’ command of the black vocal tradition, here I was confronted by the harmonic power of Welsh choristers: the old hymns voiced in a great wall of sound resonating and reverberating throughout the interior.

Robeson, of course, had made that comparison many times. Both the Wesleyan chapels of the Welsh miners and the churches in which he’d worshipped with his father were, he said, places where a weary and oppressed people drew succour from prayer and song.

His movie The Proud Valley (released as The Tunnel in the US), which had brought him to Pontypridd in 1939, rested on precisely that conceit. In the film (the only one of his movies in which he took much pride), Robeson played David Goliath, an unemployed seaman who wanders into the Welsh valley and is embraced by the miners when the choir leader hears him sing.

Throughout the 1930s, the analogy between African Americans and workers in Britain (and especially Wales) helped reorient Robeson, both aesthetically and politically, after his disillusionment with the English establishment.

His contact with working-class communities in Britain provided him with an important reassurance. He told his friend Marie Seton about a letter he received from a cotton-spinner during one of his tours. “This man said he understood my singing, for while my father was working as a slave, his own father was working as a wage slave in the mills of Manchester.”

That was in northern England, but he experienced a similar commonality everywhere, and it pleased and intrigued him. If the slave songs of the US were worth celebrating, what about the music emerging from other oppressed communities? What connections might the exploration of distinctive cultural traditions forge between different peoples?

During the visit, Robeson was interviewed by the local paper, and he told the writer he was no longer wedded to a classical repertoire. He’d come to regard himself as a folk singer, devoted to what he called “the eternal music of common humanity”. To that end, he was studying languages, working his way haphazardly through Russian, German, French, Dutch, Hungarian, Turkish, Hebrew, and sundry other tongues so as to perform the songs of different cultures in the tongues in which they had been written. He had become, he said, a singer for the people.

Robeson with Sir Cedric Hardwicke in the 1937 film 'King Solomon’s Mines' (Photograph: Ronald Grant Archive)

The confidence of that statement reflected another lesson drawn primarily from Wales. In African American life, the black church had mattered so much because religion provided almost the only institutional stability for people buffeted by racial oppression. In particular, because Jim Crow segregated the workplace, black communities struggled to form and maintain trade unions. Wales, though, was different. The miners found consolation in religion, with every village dotted with chapels. But they believed just as fervently in trade unionism.

The Gresford disaster showed why. In an industry such as mining, you relied on your workmates – both to get the job done safely and to stand up for your rights. The battle was necessarily collective. A single miner possessed no power at all; the miners as a whole, however, could shut down the entire nation, as they’d demonstrated in 1926.

In particular, the cooperation mandated by modern industry might, at least in theory, break down the prejudices that divided workers – even, perhaps, the stigma attached to race. That was the point Robeson dramatised in The Proud Valley, a film in which the solidarity of the workplace overcomes the miners’ suspicion about a dark-skinned stranger. “Aren’t we all black down that pit?” asks one of the men.

Paul Robeson And The Welsh Miners

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GethinW

Byw yn nhref Penfro | Living in Pembroke town
 

Newydd symud i Benfro, ac am wneud ffrindie, mwynhau bywyd awyr agored a chadwn heini | Recently moved to Pembroke and looking forward to making friends, enjoying the great outdoors and keeping fit. ... 

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