PARTS OF
A LETTER FROM WAKEFIELD.
By E. L.
(Reprinted by permission from 'Fors Glavigera' of July and September, 1875.[1])
What long years have passed since my eyes first saw the calm sweet scene beyond Wakefield Bridge! I was but a small creature then, and had never been far from my mother's door. It was a memorable day for me when I toddled a full mile from the shady up-town street where we lived, past strange windows, over unfamiliar flags, to see the big weir and the chapel on the Bridge. Standing on tiptoe, I could just see over the parapet and look down-stream.
That was my first peep into fair, green England, and destined never to be forgotten. The grey old chapel, the shining water below, the far-winding green banks spangled with butted cups, the grove-clad hills of Heath and Kirkthorpe,—all seemed to pass into my heart for ever.
There was no railway then, only the Doncaster coach careering over the Bridge with a brave sound of horn; fields and farmsteads stood where the Kirkgate Station is; where the twenty black throats of the foundry belch out flame and soot, there were only strawberry-grounds and blossoming pear-orchards, among which the throstles and blackbirds were shouting for gladness.
