Letter from Edward Thomas to his wife, Helen Thomas. Archival reference: 424/1/1/1/1/125
together are delightful. So also with the rest of your day.
Wasted! not a particle of it, I should say. I hope you get on
as well with Father too. And what of Mr Rees?

I don't suppose Mother is in a vast hurry: so I shall send her the
money in instalments this week.

My work progresses slowly, my writing not at all, and the
Speaker and Literature remain silent. Edwards by the way
recommended me to go to town from Saturday to Monday when I
feel as I do now. but I fear I can't afford it.

The half term is reached on Saturday, and I shall have been
away nearly 5 weeks, and having come up before the term
began, I have

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My dearest friend,
The meeting with Miss Lucas and her brother was quite a
failure. There was rather a crowd there, mostly ladies, and I
spent most of my time in discussing Edwards with a Scotch
lady named Greig, I believe; for Edwards is an object of
interest to all women. I asked the brother to look me up, but
he never came. They were a curious set, including one
anaemic creature called Dolores.

As for young Parsons. Of course I told you I looked him up,
and then asked
him in one evening. Since then I have not seen him.
Ambrose's note you don't enclose; but I had one last night
from him asking for a candid opinion of his brother. Alas!
Ambrose thinks I should have a good influence on
him. He little knows the difference between my domestic self
and my Oxford self. It would be wiser for me to
leave him alone. I am not fit to influence anyone well that is
younger than myself - at least up here.

Besides I see quite enough society, though owing to the
present torpid state of my brain I can't make the

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best of it, though it is often really good society. Morgan of
course, I see most. He tells me I am the best companion he
knows, and that I never bore him, which many friends of his who
are more famous and more intellectual than I, sometimes do.
I see a good deal of T.P. Maine, the folklore man. Our paths
[illegible] rather paralleled. Only nature, old customs, legends
etc. interest him as possible material for theories, whilst me
they interest as matter for artistic effect.

You do see to get on well with Mother. She herself says
likewise. And your accounts of your walks
still another month. I shall be glad to be back. I am like a in a
flower pot or a vase, [illegible] of its native earth. I do not
flourish. You see the flowers drop away and are not renewed.
Hence my dulness(sic), and the effacement of my spirit. All I
can say is I love you, Helen.

Goodbye! my own sweet little one, Goodnight! I am ever and
wholly yours
Edwy.
Adieu