A DAUGHTER OF THINE

Nestled in the row of stone terraced houses stands 9 Oxford Street, an ordinary house in an ordinary road. This mild June evening, crowds begin to gather silently outside, the unspoken words muffled under a blanket of mourning.

Just after 8pm, the door slowly opens, and the pall bearers carry a body from within and lay it on the wheeled wooden bier. A red woven mortcloth is used to cover the coffin before verses of poetry are placed on top. The silence is disturbed by only a few uncontrollable sobs and the horses’ hooves clopping on the cobbled stones as they wait impatiently for their role in this ceremony to commence.

A hymn is sung for the deceased before the solemn cortege walks towards Stock Lane. Police on horseback head the procession, their green uniforms striking against the black attire of onlookers. Officers line the sidewalks as an increasing number of mourners gather in the small industrial town. Spectators remove their tweed caps in a show of solidarity as the cortege passes. As the procession turns onto Acres Lane towards the chapel, there is very little room left for the convoy to proceed.

Family and friends follow the pall bearers into the small church, before the doors are closed on the growing masses cramming the streets.

My first memories of The Welsh Bard are from when I was five. I probably knew him before this, but I haven’t retained such trivia. He had been dead for well over a century. He was my great-great-great-great-grandfather.

1977.

Well I remember, how in early years,

I toil’d therein, with unavailing tears:

Condemn’d to suffer what I could not shun,

Till Sol seven times his annual course had run!

No bondage state- no inquisition cell,

Nor scenes yet dearer to the Prince of Hell,

Could greater acts of cruelty display

Than you tall factories on a former day;

E’en neighbouring forests frown’d with angry nods,

To see, Oppression! thy demand for rods!

Rods, doom’d to bruise in barb’rous dens of noise

The tender forms of orphan girls and boys!

Whose cries-which mercy in no instance found,

Were by the din of whirling engines drown’d

John Jones (1856) Extract from ‘Holywell’

My grandfather read the poem with eagerness, passion burning through his words.

“Is it about the cotton mills again, Grandad? Tell us why he was there. I like this story!” My older brother, Stuart, leaned forward, his eyes glinting with the reflection of the flames created by the burning coal.

“In 1796, when John was eight years old, his parents sent him to work in the cotton mills in Holywell. They told him he had stay there for seven whole years!”

“That’s so cruel. Mum and Dad won’t ever send me there, will they?” I chewed at my fingernails, feeling sickly at the thought. My cousin, Stephen, chortled at my question. Being the youngest had its drawbacks, usually when I was made to feel a fool.

“He was one of the lucky ones,” my grandfather replied. “Some children had to walk two miles to the mill every morning and walk home in the dark. A few were beaten for trying to escape!”

Images of children walking alone though dark, wet fields haunted me. Images I was too young to understand, but now I know they were visions of cold and hunger, poverty and exhaustion. Visions of cruelty and exploitation.

Over the decades I thought of my 4th great-grandfather less and less, my own path littered with the ups and downs of life. I had little time to think of the humble man who led a life of poverty, adventure and poetic genius; his poetry is now just a memory, his verses faded with time.

But what of the stories I was told? How much truth do they hold? Does my memory replay them with any kind of accuracy? Where is the book my grandad read from? What happened to his poems? All this knowledge has died since these stories were recited around a glowing fire, absorbed into nothingness, a few sparse memories struggling to survive in the last burning embers.

My brother remembers very little. Stephen passed away in young adulthood. My father and grandparents left us many years ago. If only I could go back and ask the dozens of unanswered questions that badger my mind. Unfortunately, that knowledge died alongside my ancestors; an immeasurable opportunity lost in the abyss of time.

I key in ‘John Jones poet’. With no date of birth and such a common name, I’m not feeling overly confident. I click on a link to the Dictionary of Welsh Biography and read an article about a John Jones 1788 – 1858. It says he was sent to work in the cotton mills at the age of eight. Surely this must be him?

1979

Now drums and trumpets sound the loud alarms,

And the deluded nations rush to arms;

Whole legions hasten from their native shore

To slaughter men they never saw before.

And now, without a shadow of offence,

The work of darkness and of death commence.

John Jones (1856) Extract from ‘The Horrors Of War’.

The flames danced vibrantly in the hearth as we listened to our grandfather reading the poem, sitting like three rabbits in a trance as oncoming headlights flickered across the highway. I doubt we understood the meaning of the verse being fervently narrated, but we knew it symbolised the brutality of war.

“Why was he fighting, Grandad?” My brother sat cross-legged; his knees drawn up to his chest.

“He was in the Royal Navy. Do you know what that means?”

“He was on a ship going to war.” I answered quickly before my brother and cousin could take the praise. Surely, they would be impressed with my knowledge of such boyish things.

“Before he joined the Royal Navy, he worked on a merchant ship.”

“What’s a merchant ship?” I was glad Stephen had asked the question. I didn’t need to fake my understanding.

“It’s a ship that carries things to sell in another country. The ship was called the ‘Anne’, but he didn’t realise they were really going to pick up slaves!”

“Slaves! No way!” The thought of slaves troubled me. It was cruel. I don’t think I listened to his poems that day.

After a day spent burrowing down various rabbit holes on Ancestry, bingo … I had a family tree in front of me. And there he was, his name leaping out and performing a little fandango dance.

I used a few ‘hints’ from the tree of a Sylvia Hindle; we shared the same great, great grandfather. Curious, I messaged her to introduce myself and see if she could throw any light on my many unanswered questions. Surprisingly, Sylvia knew my grandparents and father when she was young, before emigrating to Australia. I’d always being slightly envious of my friends with relatives down under. Could a long-haul holiday be calling my name?

Sylvia, it turns out, is an overflowing diamond coffer of information. At the age of 15, John completed his seven-year apprenticeship at the Holywell cotton mill and travelled to Liverpool in the hope of seeking his fortune. It’s possible John was coerced by ‘crimps’, press-gangs for merchant ships. James Stanfield, a former worker on a Liverpool slave ship stated: “There are public houses under the influence and in the pay of slave merchants. Every allurement and artifice are held out to entice into these infamous dens. Festivity and music lay hold of the deluded senses, prostitution throws a fascinating spell with too much success and intoxication.’ He describes how the drunken victim would be unable to pay the inflated bill and threatened with arrest. Landlords would offer the alternative of serving on a ship. Others were simply kidnapped. Such practices were confirmed by Alexander Falconbridge, a doctor who served on four different slave ships from 1782 to 1787. Was this the fate of John Jones? Or did he simply seek a life at sea? Either way, he experienced first-hand the devastation of the slave trade.

The Anne set sail from Liverpool on 15th April 1803. She sailed to Loango, a pre-colonial African state, where she picked up 397 slaves. Male slaves were shackled together. Women and children were given slightly more freedom. Only 357 survived. Crew members were beaten if they refused to perform their duties. Out of 38 crew, 3 died. Causes of death included dysentery, scurvy and starvation.

They arrived in Charleston, South Carolina, on 11th April 1804, a journey of 362 days. From there the slaves were transported to the plantations and forced to work. Later in life, John’s experiences sparked the inspiration of his poem A Negro’s Inquiry.

1981

Has the white man, whom our vigour

Daily keeps in pomp and state,

Aught beyond his pride and rigour,

To confirm him truly great?

Would the flames or waters spare him

More than Afrie's sable crew;

Would the lion pause to tear him,

Though he boast a whiter hue?

John Jones (1856) Extract from

‘The Negro’s Inquiry’

“What does he mean, Grandad?”

“He says white people thought they were like God; above everyone else. What white people did was unforgivable.”

“Did he ever go on another slave ship?” It gave me shivers to think that people could be treated so horribly. I had visions of Black people in chains walking along dusty roads. One of my friends was Black. I didn’t like it.

“He joined the Royal Navy instead and went to fight in the Napoleonic Wars.”

A look of admiration flashed across my brother’s face. Boys! Why did they get so excited about fighting?

“Was Napoleon the one who lost his eye?” I was sure my mum told me a cannon ball hit him.

“Don’t be stupid. That’s Lord Nelson!” My brother laughed. Stephen giggled under his breath. I didn’t know why he was laughing. My brother was smarty pants, but I doubt my cousin even knew who Nelson was.

John was only sixteen when he experienced his first naval warfare aboard HMS Barbadoes, capturing several French ships in the West Indies. I can’t help but wonder how terrified he must have been at such a young age. The nearest my boys came to warfare was playing on their Xboxes in the warmth of their bedrooms. They rarely found the effort to nip downstairs for food; a text message to mum requesting a plate to the room would suffice.

French and Spanish fleets tried to distract the Navy away from Europe by threatening British territories in the West Indies. John’s crew witnessed Admiral Villeneuve turn his fleet back on 11th June 1805. The captain of HMS Barbadoes managed to send a message to Nelson, which resulted in a blockade at Cadiz. This led to the Battle of Trafalgar on 21st October 1805.

John was later transferred to serve on both HMS Saturn and the Royal George. It was whilst serving on these ships that his love of poetry began.

After the Battle of Waterloo on 18th June 1815, Napoleon fled to the west coast of France. The Royal George was sent to patrol the area and prevent him from escaping. Napoleon eventually surrendered on 15th July 1815. One of John’s early poems documents his encounter with Napoleon before he was sent into exile to St Helena.

1983

Is this the Potentate,

Who, like Almighty Jove, the nations shook;

And hurl'd the bolts of fate,

Perplexing monarchs with a single look?

How chang'd!—this dread of kings

Can now no crown, no wide dominion boast;

And see yon tow'ring wings

Prepare to waft him to a foreign coast!

Loud, loud, the awful knell

Of all his greatness rang at Waterloo!

And as that mantle fell,

Th' imperial robe has vanished from his view.

John Jones (1856) Extract from ‘On seeing the ex-emperor Napoleon’

The coal crackled in the hearth, the flames creating shadows which danced around the room. My grandfather finished reciting and placed the book by his slippers. I knew this was our cue to leave, but a question niggled me.

“Who was my great, great, great, great grandmother? John’s wife? You never mention her.” I had recently bought my first music album: Now That’s What I Call Music. Many songs were written about love. If John Jones had written so many poems, why wasn’t there a poem about his wife?

“Who wants to write about his wife?” My brother stared at me, the side of his lip raised in disgust. Either that or embarrassment that his sister could ask such a dumb question.

“I don’t know, he never mentions her.”

I felt a little sad at his reply. I hoped my future husband would be more romantic.

John was proud of the years he served in the Royal Navy, often using John Jones R.N. to sign his poetry, but the pull of life in North Wales bore heavily on him. At the end of the Napoleonic War in 1815, he wrote a poem on his return:

Thou land of my birth, and my fathers' before me,

I glory to roam o'er thy mountains and vales;

A daughter of thine was the parent that bore me,

And most that I value on earth is in Wales.

(Opening verse from ‘Address to my Native Land, after an absence of twelve years.’)

Until recently, I lived in North Wales. A few weeks ago, I relocated to Tameside in Greater Manchester due to my sixteen-year-old daughter being offered a place at dance college. I can already feel Wales calling me home: I spend hours longing to stroll the mountains and dip my toes in the sea. One of John’s poems is titled ‘Conway’, the town I lived in (the Welsh Government have now changed the spelling to Conwy). It’s uncanny that such parallels exist between our lives.

After six years, John was offered promotion to a mill in Stalybridge, now part of Greater Manchester. I’m living just a couple of miles from Stalybridge. Am I in some kind of alternate existence? Or is it coincidence? Probably, but the little girl in me that still believes in fairy tales is singing otherwise.

According to the 1851 census, John was still living in Stalybridge with his daughters and young grandchildren. He is listed as ‘married’, but there is no reference to his wife, my 4th great grandmother. There is no record of a wedding certificate. No birth certificates for their daughters. No baptism data. They are not listed on the 1841 census. It seems she disappeared without a trace, any evidence of her existence wiped away.

John was a single father in declining health with his grandchildren living with him. I too have been in that position. It isn’t easy. Is this another similarity maybe? I remind myself that he’s been dead for nearly two centuries and try to snap out of the overly sentimental reverie.

I contact the University of Bangor Archives who confirm they hold a file for a poet named John Jones. With no date of birth recorded they are unable to verify whether it’s my ancestor. I make the two-hundred-mile round trip the next day. I never make life easy: a few weeks previously I had been living a fifteen minute drive away.

I immediately know the file belonged to my ancestor. The top article is a song which was written for the ‘Marriage of Miss Pennant with Lord Viscount Fielding’. It is signed by John Jones and dated June 18th, 1846. John had ties with the family and some of his poems are dedicated to them. I’ve written a few poems for family funerals, including my father’s. Another parallel perhaps?

The Pennant family lived at Downing Hall in Flintshire and owned the hall and church at Pantasaph. It is not known how John became good friends with such a rich influential family, but David Pennant subscribed to the publication of a few of John’s books. One of John’s poems is named ‘On Visiting Downing’ written in June 1848. Mixing in such circles seems a far cry from his life at Oxford Street.

Most of the documents are written in Welsh. Although I have a very basic grasp of the language, it is by no means sufficient to read the many articles. John’s personal notebook full of handwritten poems is amongst the papers. It’s surreal to think I’m holding the very same notebook that he himself had written in nearly two centuries earlier.

The archivist found an online copy of his most well-known book, John Jones - Poems 1856. It contained a three-page preface about his life, summing up everything I had been told as a child. The red, embossed cover was the same as the one I remember in my grandfather’s hand as he read passionately around the fire, the same verses jumping out of the page. The copy was from the University of California, Los Angeles and I can’t help but wonder how it had travelled so far.

Unfortunately, I was not permitted to download a copy; it was only available to Bangor University students. This news was gut wrenching. But then a question I wasn’t expecting: “Can you not access it through your Hull University library account?” This notion had never entered my head. I quickly logged on and typed in ‘John Jones Poems’. And there it was … the book I had been desperately searching for all along.

1985

Sweet Poetry's the language of the gods,

And when frail man presumes to deal therein,

All the celestials, from their bright abodes,

At once upon him in their wrath begin!

Not suddenly, with unrelenting rods,

Do they destroy him for his rhyming sin,

But then, his soul with numerous ills they teas*

And bid starvation kill him by degrees!

John Jones (1856) Extract from ‘The Fate of Poets’.

The smoky smell of burning logs felt comforting as I sat alone listening to my grandfather reciting the poems, my teenage brother and cousin no longer transfixed with poetic verse.

“Why are the gods angry, Grandad? I don’t understand?”

“It was hard for poets to make money. The people of Stalybridge even arranged concerts to raise funds. Everyone loved his poems, but he never received the recognition he deserved. He worked in the mills to put food on the table.”

I glided my hand over the soft red cover, a feeling of sadness that such a beautiful book did not bring John true happiness.

My teacher gave me a merit at school that week for a poem I wrote. She said I have a ‘knack for poetry’. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a poet any longer. The gods might not like it.

I dreamily gaze at 9 Oxford Street. A row of stone terraced houses runs down one side of the road. It’s a road of little consequence. It seems hard to imagine the crowds gathering outside as John’s body was brought out that mild summer evening. According to the Ashton & Stalybridge Reporter (1858): ‘The funeral of the deceased bard took place on a Thursday night, a wish having been expressed by many of his friends and admirers that the time of interment should be so arranged as to allow them to pay their last tribute of respect by following his remains to the grave and this could only be done without pecuniary sacrifice after work hours.”

Over 8,000 people lined the streets for John’s funeral, including two famous Welsh Poets, Ceiriog and Creuddynfab. It seems hard to imagine the huge outpouring of grief for such a humble, working class man, but it is testament to how loved his poetry had become.

A memorial monument was placed at the front of the church where he was buried. It was the first public monument in Stalybridge. Unfortunately, the chapel was demolished in the 1960’s. There is no reference as to what happened to both his monument and grave. I won’t stop looking.

The Ashton & Stalybridge Reporter (1856) compares John’s work to that of Homer and Pope “when men of the highest order of genius lived unnoticed and unknown; and not until long after they had passed away were their talents properly appreciated.”

Last week I found a copy of John’s 1856 book on eBay. It’s a reprint by a company called ‘Forgotten Books’. Unfortunately, unlike Homer and Pope, that’s what it’s become … forgotten in time.

Welsh Bard, the poet of eloquent verse:

A life of adventure you did immerse.

The Napoleonic Wars, spent at sea

Writing your poems for all to read.

Some knew the genius of a humble man

But the Gods were angry: their wrath began.

Then rich and powerful took note, subscribed,

And your poems spread far and wide.

That eve, eight thousand lined the streets:

Gods scorned to bow, not liking defeat.

I call your name for a brief moment in time

Hoping you look down smiling, at a Daughter of Thine.

Hayley Davenport-Smith (2024).

Bibliography:

Ashton & Stalybridge Reporter (1858). John Jones, The Welsh Poet. Ashton and Stalybridge Reporter. 26 June.

Ashton & Stalybridge Reporter (1858). The Monument. Ashton and Stalybridge Reporter. 18 December.

Christopher, Emma (2011). Slave Ship Sailors and their Captive Cargoes, 1730-1807. New York: Cambridge University Press. Available online : https://assets.cambridge.org/97805218/61625/excerpt/9780521861625_excerpt.pdf?cv=1 [Accessed 10/12/2024].

Dictionary of Welsh Biography (2024). JONES, JOHN (1788 - 1858), known as ' Poet Jones ' spinner, sailor and poet. Available online: JONES, JOHN (1788 - 1858), known as ' Poet Jones ' spinner, sailor and poet | Dictionary of Welsh Biography [accessed 10/12/2024]

Hill, Samuel (1987). Bygone Stalybridge. Manchester: M.T.D. Rigg.

Jones, John (1844). Holywell and other Poems. Ashton under Lyne: John Williamson Publishing. [Book]. L821JON. Tameside Local Studies & Archives Centre. Ashton-under-Lyne.

Jones, John (1858). John Jones personal papers and notebook. 24545. Bangor University Archives.

Jones, John (1846). Lines Written on Marriage of Miss Pennant with Lord Visct. Fielding: To be sung by the children of the schools. Papers of John Jones. 24545. Bangor University Archives.

Jones, John (1856). Poems. Manchester: T.Smith. Printer and Publisher.

Jones, John (1848). The Welsh Cottage and Other Poems. Stalybridge: J. Brierly and Son. [Book]. L821JON. Tameside Local Studies & Archives Centre. Ashton-under-Lyne.

Llanasa Archives (2024) The Welsh Poet, John Jones [1788 - 1858] - spinner, sailor and poet. Available online: archive 4 [Accessed 10/12/2024].

Hayley Davenport-Smith is a Manchester based busy mum of five, but she’s also been a teacher, accountant, bank clerk, bartender, waitress, piano player and part of a high school dance quartet. She has an honours degree in accountancy, is a qualified primary school teacher and has a post-graduate certificate in Bilingualism in Education. She can usually be found reading a book, although writing a novel was always on her bucket list. Eventually, this became reality when she self-published her children’s middle-grade fantasy novel Labyrinth Junction in 2019. After winning a battle with breast cancer, her motto in life was to live for the moment and follow her dreams. Consequently, she relocated from the side of a mountain in North Wales to England, her childhood home, and began studying for a master’s in creative writing through Hull University. She’s currently writing her first young adult novel and is in the process of rewriting Labyrinth Junction in the hope of winning a publishing contract.