Read Online Everyman's England by Victor Canning - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Victor Canning
Ads: Link
mustard? Pass it would you? Him, heâs left the stage now. Keeps a fish and chip shop in Plymouth â married the daughter, I think. Bit of funny business about that if you ask me. I shall get the inside story when we play Exeter. Remember Johnny Crew and his craze for playing Shakespeare with Benson?â
âYou bet. He was in rep. with me for a while at Blackpool. Whatâs he doing?â
âChorus in an Edinburgh panto. Heâs a card.â
âIâll say he is. I shall never forget the night when he andâ¦â
What they were doing, whether they were both playing that night in the same or separate theatres at Birkenhead, or Liverpool, I never found out. There was something pathetic in the eagerness with which they exchanged news. It might be months, years before they met, or perhaps they never would meet again. The stage, especially for those conscientious, aspiring, but never-tobe-famous men and women who serve the provinces, is a hard master.
When I left they were still talking hard, but they had exhausted their news and were swapping jokesâ¦
From Birkenhead I went on to Port Sunlight. Port Sunlight, not far from Birkenhead, must be seen to be believed. An oasis in a morass of industry, it is a classical example of benevolent capitalism, and a demonstration of the power of soap. The hundreds of houses, quartered by fresh greens and walks, represent all styles of English cottage architecture. Its abiding merit is that the architects have not attempted to reproduce all the styles in one house as is done in some suburban estates.
I saw happier, healthier-looking people in Port Sunlight than anywhere else in the Wirral, and now every time I wash my hands I feel that the act is one of blessing, for it perpetuates in the Wirral a beauty which deserves a more appreciative audience.
When you go to the Wirral you may not be as disappointed as I was. If you have read these words you will not be expecting so much as I was. Maybe you will find there much that I missed, or see in places which appalled me an interest which holds you. I hope so, for I would like to think that my view was jaundiced and that the district deserves better than I have given it.
If your faith in the sanity of mankind is shaken; if you cannot reconcile the stupidity of the Dee with the dirty dignity of the Mersey then wander along the Mersey shore, passing the explosive and margarine factories, tripping over railway lines and trespassing upon factory roads until you come to Eastham Ferry where the canal begins, and in the public house there you will find good beer and conversation with men who love the dirty Mersey in a way which is past explanation, and if you are in no mood for talk, you can lean upon the fence overlooking the entrance to the canal and watch the great ships come out of the mist to pass inland, a dim, silent procession.
CHAPTER 6
THE POTTERIES
Dr Johnson, in an idle moment, during his tour of the Hebrides with Boswell, once composed a meditation upon a pudding. The meditation, while it makes good reading, is a bad recipe. I fancy Dr Johnsonâs pudding would be as ponderous as he was and would weigh heavier upon one than his devastating retorts. The meditation is enough to show that a pudding has in it those elements which must excite all menâs wonder and is such a compound of creative mysteries that it almost becomes a sacrilege to eat it.
It is a pity that Dr Johnson, although he was born at Lichfield, so close to the Potteries, did not visit them with his Boswell and give us a meditation upon a basin, for there is in the making of a basin enough speculative material to satisfy anyone, and perhaps the basin deserves a more noble meditation than the pudding, for without the basin where would the pudding be?
If without the basin the pudding is lost, or at the best wrapt in the sorry folds of a cloth to lose its flavour, then without the Potteries they are both lost. That so much which is
âYou bet. He was in rep. with me for a while at Blackpool. Whatâs he doing?â
âChorus in an Edinburgh panto. Heâs a card.â
âIâll say he is. I shall never forget the night when he andâ¦â
What they were doing, whether they were both playing that night in the same or separate theatres at Birkenhead, or Liverpool, I never found out. There was something pathetic in the eagerness with which they exchanged news. It might be months, years before they met, or perhaps they never would meet again. The stage, especially for those conscientious, aspiring, but never-tobe-famous men and women who serve the provinces, is a hard master.
When I left they were still talking hard, but they had exhausted their news and were swapping jokesâ¦
From Birkenhead I went on to Port Sunlight. Port Sunlight, not far from Birkenhead, must be seen to be believed. An oasis in a morass of industry, it is a classical example of benevolent capitalism, and a demonstration of the power of soap. The hundreds of houses, quartered by fresh greens and walks, represent all styles of English cottage architecture. Its abiding merit is that the architects have not attempted to reproduce all the styles in one house as is done in some suburban estates.
I saw happier, healthier-looking people in Port Sunlight than anywhere else in the Wirral, and now every time I wash my hands I feel that the act is one of blessing, for it perpetuates in the Wirral a beauty which deserves a more appreciative audience.
When you go to the Wirral you may not be as disappointed as I was. If you have read these words you will not be expecting so much as I was. Maybe you will find there much that I missed, or see in places which appalled me an interest which holds you. I hope so, for I would like to think that my view was jaundiced and that the district deserves better than I have given it.
If your faith in the sanity of mankind is shaken; if you cannot reconcile the stupidity of the Dee with the dirty dignity of the Mersey then wander along the Mersey shore, passing the explosive and margarine factories, tripping over railway lines and trespassing upon factory roads until you come to Eastham Ferry where the canal begins, and in the public house there you will find good beer and conversation with men who love the dirty Mersey in a way which is past explanation, and if you are in no mood for talk, you can lean upon the fence overlooking the entrance to the canal and watch the great ships come out of the mist to pass inland, a dim, silent procession.
CHAPTER 6
THE POTTERIES
Dr Johnson, in an idle moment, during his tour of the Hebrides with Boswell, once composed a meditation upon a pudding. The meditation, while it makes good reading, is a bad recipe. I fancy Dr Johnsonâs pudding would be as ponderous as he was and would weigh heavier upon one than his devastating retorts. The meditation is enough to show that a pudding has in it those elements which must excite all menâs wonder and is such a compound of creative mysteries that it almost becomes a sacrilege to eat it.
It is a pity that Dr Johnson, although he was born at Lichfield, so close to the Potteries, did not visit them with his Boswell and give us a meditation upon a basin, for there is in the making of a basin enough speculative material to satisfy anyone, and perhaps the basin deserves a more noble meditation than the pudding, for without the basin where would the pudding be?
If without the basin the pudding is lost, or at the best wrapt in the sorry folds of a cloth to lose its flavour, then without the Potteries they are both lost. That so much which is
Similar Books
![Fire of the Wolf [The Gray Pack] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/498033/thumbs/152x264/fire-of-the-wolf-the-gray-pack-siren-publishing-menage-amour.png)
