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My first acquaintance with Norwich, when I was a lad of tender years and of limited experience, was by Brigg’s Lane. I had reached it by means of a carrier’s cart—the only mode of conveyance between Southwold, Wrentham, Beccles and Norwich—a carrier’s cart with a hood drawn by three noble horses, and able to accommodate almost any number of travellers and any amount of luggage.
Brigg’s Lane—The carrier’s cart—Reform demonstration—The old dragon—Chairing M.P.’s—Hornbutton Jack—Norwich artists and literati—Quakers and Nonconformists. Underneath, a still more enthusiastic Englishman had written: ‘Faults? What faults?
I know of none, except that Brigg’s Lane, Norwich, wants widening.’ For the benefit of the reader who may be a stranger to the locality, let me inform him that Brigg’s Lane leads out of the fine Market Place, for which the good old city of Norwich is celebrated all the world over, and that on a recent visit to Norwich I found that the one fault which could be laid at the door of England had been removed—that Brigg’s Lane had been widened—that, in fact, it had ceased to be a lane, and had been elevated into the dignity of a street.
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