In an interview about ten years ago with the old Parish Clerk of Bag Enderby, who was then aged eighty-six, I asked him if he could remember anything about Tennyson. ‘Tennyson,’ said he. ‘D’ya meän tha owd doctor?’1 Said I, ‘Not the doctor particularly, but any of the Tennyson family.’ He replied, ‘Tha doctor was a fine owd gentleman. I remember on ’im dying. It’s a strange long time agoä, an’ he’s in a fine big tomb ageän the church.’
Nineteenth Century Great Size Publisher Limited Young Fellow Great Poet
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