Letter from Edward Thomas to the poet Gordon Bottomley. Sent from Elses Farm, The Weald, Kent. Archival ref: 424/1/1/1/10/51
The Weald
24.01.06

My dear Gordon,
I suppose you did not see my page
of quotations from Davies in the 'Chronicle" or
you would not have asked if I had his book. He
has become a friend of mine since I first saw
him in early November or late October in
the Borough. We have corresponded; I saw
him in Wales; & yesterday he was to
have taken possession of part of my cottage -
for he is very poor & being one-legged &
I think a poet he finds work at a trade
impossible. But unluckily I was given
notice to leave my cottage at the end of this week
& I had suddenly to put him off. I fear he may
once more drift about the Borough 'tasting
the various ales': he says he is going to a
Rowton House this very week. It was
sad that the worst bout of poverty should
come when he most needed help, & when
all I could send him was a little more than enough
for his fare to London. I wonder what you will
think of his best things. I think he has
immortal moments. By the way, I
sometimes give him books: if you have any
spare copies of even the most elementary
poetry I should be glad to transmit them.
When saw him he had on a P. Wordsworth
& a Shelley - which it must have been fearful
to read by the light of a coke fire - & one
or two strange miscellanies & girfts (of
their own works!) from reviewers (not from
me, I assure you). I have given him
a Wordsworth, a Shirge Moore & I forget
what else: I am taking him a Byron and a
Cowper. - Well, I endorse
his book & the Borgia.
Be patient when you see my review.
It exceeded the length allotted to your book &
it may be cut by the Blind Man. Also it
was done in furious haste - as I do all
things now. Oh, I have lost my
very last chances of happiness & gusto &
leisure now. I am swallowed up. I
live for an income of £250 & work all day
& often from 9 a.m. until 1 a.m. It
takes me so long because I fret & fret.
Even my daily walks to & from the cottage are
solid lengths of uncomfortable misery. My
self criticism or rather my studied self
contempt is now nearly a disease. But
do not be anxious, I am a docile dog. I shall go
on until accident or old age stops me. N. B. The
one thing that engrosses me - now that fishing
is impossible - is the making of walking sticks.
If I could be a serious over prose poems I could
perhaps please Edward Garnett. Did you see
my 'Pride of the Morning'?
The copy of your book sent to
the Chronicle was defaced by 'with
the publisher's contempts' in a
bad handwriting.
How you would like Ernest Rhys,
by the way. I see him now & then - an
absolutely devoted lover of all gentle & fine
things both of temperament &
accident. But such consistent people
with real characters nearly always annoy
me who am destined to reflect so
many characters & to be none. What a
barber was lost in me!
I use boot tras now - also
plates with monograms - if I live
20 years longer I shall be well-dressed. The
pity of it is that I don't sincerely want to be-
I am buying a dinner gong with my last sovereign.

---------------
It is possible - I think likely-
that we shall be turned out of this house
in 6 months time; which I cannot look
forward to with ease. But Merfyn will
need a school in a year or so specially as
my time & temper for informing him
ever shortening fast: so a change is inevitable
within 2 years.

This seems a large enough chapter of
my autobiographical remarks for one
household. But not therefore do I cease.
I have to write on De Quincey, on Telepathy,
on Byron, on Blake, on '100 years hence
by an optimist', on Leland's itinerary in
Wales etc.
Yours ever but in confusion now
Edward Thomas

P. S. Ransome took 'Midsummer Eve'
off the Academy's hands. He is getting
clever. He bought my 'Horace' for 9d.
& sold it in an hour to a friend for 2s.
He is just resting after his sixth
(serious) affair of the heart.