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he owed Andrew a letter； and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's
collegiate oration； he began to write：
THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street； Brooklyn；
November 30； 1918。
MY DEAR ANDREW：
It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of
cider； which has given us even more than the customary pleasure。 This has
been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own
thoughts； and I've written no letters at all。 Like everyone else I am
thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us。
I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of
humanity。 I wish there could be an international peace conference of
booksellers； for （you will smile at this） my own conviction is that the
future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on
the librarians。 I wonder what a German bookseller is like？
I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might
have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War。 I fear it
would have bowled him over。 He thought that this is not a world 〃that
sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder。〃 What would he
have said of the four…year shambles we have watched with sickened
hearts？
You remember my favourite poemold George Herbert's Church
Porch where he says
By all means use sometimes to be alone； Salute thyself； see what thy
soul doth wear； Dare to look in thy chest； for 'tis thine own； And tumble up
and down what thou find'st there
Well； I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal。
Melancholy； I suppose； is the curse of the thinking classes； but I confess
my soul wears a great uneasiness these days！ The sudden and amazing
turnover in human affairs； dramatic beyond anything in history； already
seems to be taken as a matter of course。 My great fear is that humanity
will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war； which have never been told。
I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they
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really saw。
You will not agree with me on what I am about to say； for I know you
as a stubborn Republican； but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the
Peace Conference。 I've been mulling over one of my favourite books it
lies beside me as I writeCromwell's Letters and Speeches； edited by
Carlyle； with what Carlyle amusingly calls 〃Elucidations。〃 （Carlyle is not
very good at 〃elucidating〃 anything！） I have heard somewhere or other
that this is one of Wilson's favourite books； and indeed； there is much of
the Cromwell in him。 With what a grim； covenanting zeal he took up the
sword when at last it was forced into his hand！ And I have been thinking
that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what
old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658〃If we will have
Peace without a worm in it； lay we foundations of Justice and
Righteousness。〃 What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is
that he operates exclusively upon reason； not upon passion。 He
contradicts Kipling's famous lines； which apply to most men
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate
conclusion in unmitigated act。
In this instance； I think； Reason is going to win。 I feel the whole
current of the world setting in that direction。
It's quaint to think of old Woodrow； a kind of Cromwell…Wordsworth；
going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell…craters。 What I'm
waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book
about it。 There's a job； if you like； for a man who might reasonably be
supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul！ When that book comes out
I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it。 I ask nothing better！ Speaking
of Wordsworth； I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some
poems concealed somewhere among his papers！ I've always imagined that
he may have written poems on the sly。 And by the way； you needn't make
fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert。 Do you realize that
two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen；
viz。：
Wouldst thou both eat thy cake； and have it？
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and
Dare to be true： nothing can need a ly； A fault； which needs it most；
grows two thereby。
Forgive this tedious sermon！ My mind has been so tumbled up and
down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and
exaltation。 You know how much I live in and for books。 Well； I have a
curious feeling； a kind of premonition that there are great books coming
out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes； perhaps A book in which
the tempest…shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before。
The Bible； you know； is rather a disappointment： it has never done for
humanity what it should have done。 I wonder why？ Walt Whitman is
going to do a great deal； but he is not quite what I mean。 There is
something comingI don't know just what！ I thank God I am a bookseller；
trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather
than some mere huckster of merchandise。 But how helpless we all are
when we try to tell what goes on within us！ I found this in one of Lafcadio
Hearn's letters the other dayI marked the passage for you
Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross； which you would
likedescribing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure but helpless；
insulted； ugly； clumsy when striving to walk on common earth or rather；
on a deck； where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes； etc。
You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves； now
the long dark nights are come！ Of course until ten o'clock； when I shut
up shop； I am constantly interruptedas I have been during this letter；
once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of
Reading Gaol； so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes！