File:From Gretna Green to Land's End - a literary journey in England (1908) (14595065268).jpg

Identifier: fromgretnagreent00bate (find matches)
Title: From Gretna Green to Land's End : a literary journey in England
Year: 1908 (1900s)
Authors: Bates, Katharine Lee, 1859-1929
Subjects: England -- Description and travel
Publisher: London : Grant Richards
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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d, apart from the acces-sory industries of clay-grinding, bone-grind-ing, flint-grinding, and the like. It drawson its own beds of coal and iron, but the china-clay comes from Cornwall by way of Runcornand the Grand Trunk Canal, while for flintsit depends on the south coast of England andon France. Genius here is named JosiahWedgwood. This inventor of fine porce-lains, whose Queens ware* gained himthe title of Queens Potter, was born in1759 at Burslem, which had been makingbrown butter-pots as far back as the days ofCharles I. When Burslem grew too smallfor his enterprise, Wedgwood established thepottery village of Etruria, to which the auto-mobile passionately refused to take us. Itdashed us into Newcastle-under-Lyme, wherewe did not particularly want to go, and rushedbarking by Stoke-under-Trent, the capitalof the Potteries and also — though we hadnot breath to mention it — the birthplace ofDinah Mulock Craik. In the last town ofthe line, Longtown, our machine fairly balked, 128
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A GROUP OF INDUSTRIAL COUNTIES and the chauffeur with dignity retired underit. A crowd of keen-faced men and childrengathered about us, while we ungoggled toobserve the endless ranks of house-doorsopening into baby-peopled passages, — and,looming through the murky air, the bulgingovens of the china factories. At last ourmonster snorted on again, wiggling up thehill sideways with a grace peculiar to itselfand exciting vain hopes of a wreck in thehearts of our attendant urchins. It musthave been the Potteries that disagreed withit, for no sooner were their files of chimmeysleft behind than it set off at a mad pace forUttoxeter, on whose outskirts we alighted,like Royalty, for a wayside luncheon of sand-wiches, ale, and dust. Uttoxeter is no longer the idle little townthat Hawthorne found it, when he made pil-grimage thither in honour of Dr. Johnsonspenance, for the good Doctor, heart-troubledfor fifty years because in boyhood he oncerefused to serve in his fathers stead at themarket b

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