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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！ But later
on； after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed； I
prowl about the place； dipping into this and that； fuddling myself with
speculation。 How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those
late hours； after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained
off！ Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth； and hear
the surf breaking on those shining sands。 Then some offshore wind of
weariness or prejudice bears me away again。 Have you ever come across
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Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days？ One of the
honest books of the War。 The Little Man ends his confession thus
My anger has left me； my sadness returned； and once more the tears
flow。 Whom can I curse； whom can I judge； when we are all alike
unfortunate？ Suffering is universal； hands are outstretched to each other；
and when they touch 。 。 。 the great solution will come。 My heart is aglow；
and I stretch out my hand and cry； 〃Come； let us join hands！ I love you； I
love you！〃
And of course； as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind
someone comes along and picks your pocket。 。 。 。 I suppose we must
teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked！
Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS？
The course of this country in the War； for instance； has been largely
determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think！ If
we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began；
how interesting it would be。
Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board
for my customers to ponder。 It was written by Charles Sorley； a young
Englishman who was killed in France in 1915。 He was only twenty years
old
TO GERMANY
You are blind like us。 Your hurt no man designed； And no man
claimed the conquest of your land。 But gropers both through fields of
thought confined We stumble and we do not understand。 You only saw
your future bigly planned； And we； the tapering paths of our own mind；
And in each other's dearest ways we stand； And hiss and hate。 And the
blind fight the blind。 When it is peace； then we may view again With
new…won eyes each other's truer form And wonder。 Grown more loving…
kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain； When it is
peace。 But until peace； the storm The darkness and the thunder and the
rain。
Isn't that noble？ You see what I am dumbly groping forsome way
of thinking about the War that will make it seem （to future ages） a
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purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders
and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage。
Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new
conception of national neighbourhood。 I hear so much apprehension that
Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime。 But how can any
punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow？
I think she has already punished herself horribly； and will continue to do
so。 My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into
some new realization of the sanctity of lifeall life； animal as well as
human。 D